


Vibratory Beings

by HailMary



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Guilt, Industrial Revolution, M/M, Music, Other Revolutions, Torture, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2018-11-02 19:00:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10950750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HailMary/pseuds/HailMary
Summary: Grantaire was torn from his golden life of music, wine, and debauchery and left to rot in the most notorious prison in France. No one bothered to tell him why.Seven years later, a broken and silent Grantaire is released back into the world. He stumbles across a group of revolutionaries searching for their savior. Is their meeting a coincidence? Or is there no such thing?





	1. fresh air

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to acknowledge some additional influences: The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas and The Song of the Beast by Carol Berg.

A sliver of light fell across Grantaire’s face. Though dim, the light was blinding. All light was blinding when you lived in the dark. 

He used to flinch when the light came. He’d scuttle into a corner, twitchy as the roaches who shared his cell. He’d bring his knees up to his chest, tuck his hands beneath his legs, close his eyes. And he would sing. He sang when he heard Claude’s boots squelch through the muck that covered the stone floor of his prison.

Every time, he sang. In the beginning.

Now he lay quietly in the light, his hands cradling each other on his chest. His stillness, though, was not anticipation. He didn’t waste time anticipating Claude. Rather, he had become an expert vanisher. The thoughts that battered him in the beginning – _you are totally alone, you are powerless, you will never get out, you will be alone forever, you are doomed_   – those thoughts no longer hurt him. He noticed the thoughts and dismissed them in the same breath. The thoughts floated by, and Grantaire was free to fade into nothingness.

Claude would come eventually. He would wrap his meaty hand around Grantaire’s arm and drag him into the chamber beyond the cell, a farmer shifting a sack of potatoes. Whatever happened after that was beyond Grantaire’s reckoning. Maybe Claude would hurt him. Maybe he would feed him. Maybe it was time for his monthly dousing. The only certainty was none of it mattered.

Soft sounds of movement filtered in from the outer chamber and drifted through Grantaire’s darkness. Claude walked from the basin in the corner to the sturdy table that stood opposite the door to Grantaire’s cell. Iron clanged against iron. A door opened.

“Get up,” said Claude. His voice was deep.

Grantaire shifted onto his side, coughing as he went. Rising to his knees was slow going. He felt like an old man, though he wasn’t. Probably.

“For the love of the gods,” muttered Claude. He stepped into the tiny cell and hauled Grantaire to his feet.

Grantaire used to wonder what kind of man Claude was outside the prison. Did he have a wife? Or, gods forbid, children? Or, hey. Maybe Claude was a real standup guy when he wasn’t torturing. He wouldn’t be the first person to leave work at work.

Then again, maybe not. Grantaire nearly keeled over, his knees cracking as they straightened. Darkness ate at the edges of his vision. He had to be careful not to fall. He wouldn’t be able to catch himself.

Claude hovered at his side. “Move.”

Steadying himself the best he could, Grantaire shuffled into the room beyond his cell. He’d been in this room many times. But something was different this time. A puff of air shifted the little hairs across Grantaire’s forehead.

The other door, the door to the rest of the prison, was open. His sluggish heart beat faster. In all the years he’d been in this wretched place, that door had never been open. Not once. But Grantaire had not survived this long by anticipating. He told his sluggish heart to slow down.

“Move,” Claude said again. “One foot in front of the other. Surely, you remember how.”

One foot in front of the other. Leaning heavily on Claude, Grantaire walked out of the two rooms that had made the sum total of his world. A long, dark corridor stretched ahead, the stone floor sloping upwards. Heavy wood doors, much like Grantaire’s, marched along each side of the corridor. A bracketed torch flickered outside each one. The fire did nothing to lessen the damp chill.

It was lovely.

“Walk.”

The corridor seemed endless. The only sounds were their dragging footfalls and Grantaire’s harsh breathing. It was a wonder the walls weren’t screaming. They eventually turned right, then left. Each corridor looked the same, felt the same. All echoes of each other. Grantaire hobbled along, his eyes cast resolutely on the tops of his feet.

Finally, the corridor ended in a door identical to all the rest. Claude brushed past Grantaire and fiddled a key into the lock.

The door swung open.

A blast of fragrant air almost brought Grantaire to his knees. Fresh. The air was fresh.

He lifted his head. His eyes were met with night. Real night, a night full of stars and wind. Not the haunted darkness he’d been living in.

Grantaire’s breath caught in his chest. He used to love being outside. He used to sit under open sky, a flute or harp or _anything_ in his hands, and sing. Wine and cheese and fresh baked bread and good company and laughter and music, music, music, music. So much music.

Grantaire risked a glance at Claude. This must be a trick. A new torture. One meant to make him _want_ again, and then rip everything away. Evolution in cruelty.

Claude raised his eyebrows. He must know what Grantaire was thinking. He knew Grantaire better than anyone ever had. A horrifically depressing thought, to be sure.

“You’re free to go,” said Claude gruffly. He inclined his head toward a dirt road leading away from the prison. “Follow the road. There’s a town down that way.”

Grantaire stared at Claude in disbelief. A trick. A trick. There was no way.

Claude shook his head. “You served your time. Out you get.” He propelled Grantaire forward with hand on the small of his back.

Grantaire stumbled out of the prison, a stab of panic breaking through his numbness. He staggered in half circle, twisting his head to catch Claude’s eye. He knew his own were open wide.

Claude shrugged his shoulders. “I spent seven years telling you what to do. Figure it out yourself.”

He slammed the door in Grantaire’s face.

Grantaire looked to the left, then to the right. The Bastille had been built into the base of the Alps, carved out of the rock itself. Its dark walls curved in both directions, eventually disappearing into vertical cliff face on each side. He looked up. Shadowy clouds blew back and forth across the sky, obscuring huge patches of stars only to reveal others.

Maybe this was a trick. Maybe he’d get a hundred feet down the road and hear horses thundering after him. It didn’t matter. 

Grantaire turned his back on the Bastille. Seven years, Claude had said. Seven years as a prisoner in the Bastille. Seven years of pain, hunger, and loneliness. Most of those years spent in silence.

And he had no idea why.

Grantaire dismissed the thought, cleared his mind, and hobbled into the night.

 

* * *

 

A monstrous noise pulled Grantaire from sleep. His eyelids felt stuck together with tar, but he managed to pry them open. The room was dark, the door closed. He turned onto his stomach and pulled the bed’s soft sheets over his head.

Another noise, louder this time. Shouting.

“No,” he moaned. The silky sheets slid down to his bare hips as he sat up. The room did a few loops before settling in place. Great.

Grantaire poked the naked back of the man in bed with him. Martin. His name was Martin.

“Hey,” Grantaire whispered. He poked the back again. “Martin.”

Martin barely twitched.

Grantaire moaned again. He’d arrived in Troyes two days before to give a few concerts in the city. He’d been welcomed with open arms. Open arms, open bottles, open everything. Nothing but the best for Grantaire Damas.

Last night’s concert had been wonderful; his memory of it was tinged with gold, lit with candlelight. He’d played his violin, the one his mother had given him before she died. He’d played and sung of beauty and love and France.

Music had felt like this since he was a kid. Like he was invoking some otherworldly presence, one that came to him and lifted him up. People liked to say that it was the gods. That they’d blessed him with his talent. A soul for music. Grantaire had never been religious, but he understood. Song certainly felt holy.

It was when he wasn’t singing that the trouble started.

Like now. Something was up. Grantaire pushed himself out of the warm, comfortable bed and groped in the dark until he found his breeches. He pulled them on, kicking an empty bottle across the floor as he hopped from one foot to the other. Still unsteady on his feet, he made his way to the door.

Grantaire stuck his head out of the room and squinted into the dim corridor. When he didn’t see anything, he stepped into the hall. A bevy of soldiers, at least a dozen, rounded the corner a moment later, all of them dressed in his cousin’s colors.

Grantaire held his hands out, palms up, and gave them his best I’m-interacting-with-authority smile. “Hey fellas,” he said as the soldiers approached. They had their blades drawn. Grantaire shifted uneasily, feeling dizzy. “Can I help you with something?”

The soldier in the front peered at his face. “Grantaire Damas?”

A fan? “That’s me.”

Grantaire had just enough time to see the man’s lip curl before the soldier slammed his fist into Grantaire’s stomach. Grantaire doubled over. The punch had driven the air from his lungs. Before he could get his breath back, another soldier tackled him to the ground.

Grantaire’s head spun. He wheezed for breath, but someone was sitting on him. Oh, gods, what was happening?

Behind his back, heavy iron shackles were closed around each of his wrists.

Finally, Grantaire gathered enough breath to speak. “What’s going on?”

“You’re under arrest.”

Grantaire whipped his head from side to side, profoundly confused. He hadn’t done anything. All he did was drink and talk. All he did was play music. All he did was sing. “Why?”

“Treason.”

Grantaire’s mouth dropped open. The soldiers hauled him to his feet.

“There’s been a mistake,” Grantaire gasped. His fear tasted like metal. The very worst punishments were reserved for treason. “The King is my cousin. I’m not a traitor. I haven’t done anything!”

A soldier backhanded him across the face. “Silence.”

“But I haven’t–”

The first soldier who spoke, the one who’d punched Grantaire in the stomach, materialized in front of him. His sword was out. He laid it against Grantaire’s throat.

“One more word,” said the soldier, voice utterly unforgiving, “and I cut out your tongue.”

Grantaire stared at the soldier, struggling against his panic. Then he twisted to the left, as far from the sword as he could get, and vomited on the tiled floor.

The soldier in front of him sneered again. “Get him out of here.” A blindfold dropped over his eyes.

When the blindfold was next removed, Grantaire was in a tiny cell, no more than four paces from wall to wall. There was no window, no bed. The air was chill and damp and smelled like mold. With nothing else to do, Grantaire sat in the corner, his knees drawn up to his chest, his hands shackled together. Alone in the dark, he sang. The song was a simple one, just a lullaby his mother used to sing. The darkness in his mind receded, even if the darkness of his cell did not. 

He sang to himself until the door opened. A tall, broad man stood there, a shadow against the light of the outer chamber.

“My name is Claude,” said the man. “Welcome to the Bastille.”

 

* * *

 

Claude had severely underestimated Grantaire’s abilities if he’d thought Grantaire could make it to town by morning. That, or he hadn’t cared. Either way, it was Claude who Grantaire thought of when he collapsed half a mile down the road. His shaking, starved legs categorically refused to carry him another step.

He rolled himself into the tall grass lining the road, and then held his hands in front of his face. Claude hadn’t broken his fingers since he stopped talking, but the damage from those first few years was depressing. Thick with calcium deposits and scar tissue, his fingers looked more like roots erupting from the ground than actual fingers. He could barely move most of them and the rest - those he couldn’t move at all.    

He couldn’t fathom what to do next. Even if he made it to town, he wouldn’t be able to stay. It was too close to the Bastille, and Grantaire didn’t trust his sudden freedom. His release made no more sense than his imprisonment. He needed to hide, but how would he be able to support himself? Music was out of the question, obviously. What other kind of work could he do, broken as he was?

It made him wonder why he was trying so hard.

Grantaire sighed and closed his eyes. He was out of the Bastille, but the trap remained: no past, no future. No use worrying. He ignored his thoughts, refused to give them weight. The night felt wonderful as it settled over his body.

He lay there, vanished, until a farmer with a cart full of potatoes rolled by. The man spotted Grantaire and stopped his cart. Grantaire hadn’t seen his own reflection since the night he was arrested, but, judging from the farmer’s face, he must have looked as terrible as he felt. The man kept calling him _grandfather_ , and he made Grantaire eat one of the rolls his wife packed him for breakfast.

If Grantaire had any pride left to wound, the farmer’s pity would have cut it to ribbons. As things were, he did his best to twist his lips into a thankful smile. The smile was as much for the fact the farmer didn’t ask questions as it was for the roll.

When they arrived in town – Grenoble, the farmer said – they went directly to the city square. The morning market was in full swing. People walked to and fro between the stalls, haggling the price of carrots and fish. Children screamed and laughed as they chased each other through the forest of adults. Chickens clucked, cows snuffled, horseshoes clanged against each other.

The farmer helped him climb off the cart. Grantaire nodded his thanks in what he hoped was a cheerful manner. Then he staggered into the gap between the two closest buildings and leaned his head against the wall. Other than the farmer and Claude, Grantaire had not seen another human since his imprisonment. Grenoble was teeming with them. Humanity was everywhere.

They were so _loud_. 

Once upon a time, Grantaire had loved people. Adored them, in fact, and adored being adored by them. He’d grown up in Paris for fuck’s sake, a city orders of magnitude larger than Grenoble. And yet, here he was: overwhelmed by the morning market of some flyspeck backwater. What he needed was a place to hide, to quiet place to sleep for a while.

Grantaire slipped out of the alley and walked away from the square as quickly as he could manage. There had to be an inn around here somewhere. Inns had stables. Stables were dark and quiet and smelled like horses. He could sneak into one, sleep there for a while. He’d done that before, when he was too drunk to find his way into the inn itself. 

Luck was with him for once. He only had to walk for a few minutes before an inn came into view, just a few streets from the market. _The Corinth_ , according to the sign swinging above the door. It looked alright. Not too dirty. Chances were good the stables were cleaned regularly. Not that it mattered if they weren’t.

Grantaire walked along the side of The Corinth and peered cautiously into the backyard. Three men stood there, each them unremarkable in their own way. Merchants, probably. None of them looked up as Grantaire slipped past them.

Inside, the stable was warm, quiet, and full of hay. It wasn’t overly large, but had stalls enough for a dozen horses. Half the stalls were occupied. Blankets, tools, and saddles hung from the walls. A ladder stood immediately on Grantaire’s left. It led to a shadowy loft.

Grantaire itched to go up to the loft, but he knew he’d never make it up the ladder. He went instead to the empty stall at the end of the row and kicked some hay inside. The hay would do as a bed and a blanket. If someone spotted him, he would deal with it then. For now, he needed to lay down. Gods, but he hadn’t moved this much in a long time. He crawled into the stall and fell into the sleep of the dead.

He woke abruptly. Near darkness surrounded him. For a moment, Grantaire thought he was back in his cell. But no. There were no arguments to be overheard in his cell, and there was most definitely an argument happening in the stable.

Except, no. Grantaire turned one ear toward the sound. Not an argument.

A robbery.

“I know you have the purse,” said the would-be thief. His voice was shaking. Desperate. “I’ve been watching you and your friends. I saw you put it in your satchel.”

Grantaire let his forehead touch the ground.

“I’m sorry,” said the second man. His voice was light and clear, the kind that made for a lovely song. Now, though, the man was talking with the forced calm of someone staring down the pointy end of a knife. “I can’t give it to you. But if you’re hungry, I’ll buy you a meal. You can take it with you or eat it here, whatever you want. No hard feelings.”

Grantaire rolled over onto his stomach. What kind of simpleton tried to _buy a meal_ for the person trying to rob them? He crawled to his stall’s door and peeked into the stable.

The thief had his back to Grantaire’s side of the room, but Grantaire could tell the man was barely making it. A knife quivered in his right hand. He brandished it at the man with the nice voice. “Give it to me.”

Grantaire turned his gaze to the man. He had a small nose, small mouth, high cheekbones, cleft chin. Dark blonde hair hanging in wisps around his face. Sturdy, not-starving body.

“Times are hard,” said the man. He had his hands up, palms out. “But I can’t let you take this money.”

The thief ran out of patience. He went after the other man with a hoarse yell, slashing the air in front of him as he went. The attack was sloppy, haphazard. Grantaire exhaled softly when the blond man knocked the knife away with little effort. The thief, however, recovered quickly. This was a man with nothing left to lose. He barreled into the man with the money, knocking him down and raining blows on his face.

Grantaire grabbed onto the stall door and used it lever himself to his feet. There was a shovel propped against the stall next to him. He took it in his hands as best he could, curling the fingers that still worked around the rough wood handle.

He’d tried so hard for so long to erase every part of himself that mattered, every trace of identity, of soul. That was the only way he could fulfil the terms of his imprisonment. He’d had to be unborn. And the unborn weren’t really alive. Helping this man, this man who had offered to buy his attacker a hot meal, cost Grantaire nothing.

Grantaire walked up behind the thief and hit him over the head with the shovel.

The blow was not a hard one. It didn’t do any damage, that was for sure, but it did get the thief’s attention. The thief let go of the other man, his head whipping around. His red eyes fixed on Grantaire.

Before Grantaire could stumble back, the thief leapt to his feet, pulled the shovel from Grantaire’s weak hands, and swung the metal end into Grantaire’s unprotected side. Grantaire felt only resigned acceptance as he went down. This was his life. One painful blow after the other. At least he’d chosen this one. At least he’d done it for a reason.

Meanwhile, the man with the money took advantage of Grantaire’s distraction and leapt onto the thief’s back. This had the fortunate side-effect of preventing the thief from hitting Grantaire with the shovel again. It also gave the man the opportunity to shout for help.

“BOSSUET!” the man bellowed. He got his arm around the thief’s neck and pulled backwards. “JOLY!”

Grantaire lay on the ground and watched. Shallow breaths were all he could manage; deeper breaths kind of felt like being stabbed in the side. That shovel blow had done something to his ribs.

He watched as two more men ran into the stable. One was small and young-looking, the other was gigantic. With their help, the thief was pinned to ground in seconds, still howling.

“I’ve got him,” said the big guy. “Joly, can you get the innkeeper?”

The young one, Joly, turned to go, but the blond man stopped him with a touch. “Wait.” He gestured to Grantaire. “He needs help. I’ll go.”

Joly looked at Grantaire, and his mouth tightened. Grantaire turned his face away.

“Of course,” he heard Joly say. “I’ve got him.”

Then Joly was dropping to his knees beside Grantaire, and Grantaire couldn’t avoid looking at him any longer.

“Hello,” said Joly. The smile he directed at Grantaire was warm and genuine. Grantaire swallowed hard. “My name is Joly. I’m a doctor.”

A doctor?

“I know,” said Joly, his smile still in place. “I look young, but I really am a doctor. What’s your name?”

Grantaire shook his head.

Joly licked his lips. “Okay. We’ll get to that later. What hurts?”

Grantaire pointed to the place where the shovel hit. A mistake. Not because of the pain, but because the gesture brought Joly’s attention to his hand.

“Oh, gods,” Joly said quietly. He sat back on his heels. “We have rooms at this inn. I’d like to take you back to mine, give you a thorough looking over. It’ll be much easier there.”

Grantaire felt himself draw inwards.

“Please,” said Joly. “You helped Jehan. It’s the least we can do.” He hesitated. “I promise you can leave whenever you want.”

These people were strangers. Who knew what they did, what they wanted. Or, worse, who knew what danger Grantaire would expose them to by staying? Ultimately, however, the decision was already made. Grantaire had nowhere else to go.

Reluctantly, Grantaire nodded his assent.

“Thank you. Can you stand?”

Standing was a slow, halting process that left Grantaire fuzzy around the edges. The process was accelerated once Bossuet was freed from his thief-restraining duties and added his strength to the mix. Together, Joly and Bossuet half-carried Grantaire into the inn, with the third one, Jehan, leading the way. The common room was small, warm, and nearly empty.

“Take him to my room,” said Jehan, looking back. “It’s on the second floor. Less stairs.”

If Grantaire could convince himself to make words, he would have cursed the gods then and there. Stairs?

“Don’t worry,” said Joly, voice soft. “We’ve got you.”

Bossuet and Joly eased Grantaire up the stairs and into Jehan’s bedroom. It was on the second of the inn’s three floors, overlooking the inn’s backyard. The stable was clearly visible out the open window. The room itself was simple. A single bed with a homemade quilt stood against the wall to the right, and a roughhewn table and chair stood against the wall to the left. Jehan lit the candles in the stand on the table as they walked in, revealing a water pitcher and basin in the corner next to the table. A writing kit was on the table too, a bundle of loose paper held beneath it.

“Easy now,” Joly said. He kept hold of Grantaire’s hand as Grantaire lowered himself on the bed.

Once Grantaire was on the bed, he shifted uncomfortably. Five years sleeping on stone had rendered him unaccustomed to softness.

“Would you be willing to take off your...garment?” asked Joly. He carried the chair from the desk and set it next to the bed. “It would be easier to treat you if I could see what I’m working with.” He motioned for Bossuet and Jehan to wait outside. “It’ll be just the two of us. Doctor and patient.”

Grantaire waited until the door closed. He pulled the quilt over his hips – to protect his modesty, gods – and began the arduous task of stripping himself of his filthy shift.

“Here, let me help,” Joly offered. He helped Grantaire extract his arms, then pulled the shift over Grantaire’s head and threw it in the corner. The look he gave the shift was almost as dirty as the shift itself. Grantaire wondered if he would burn it later.

With the shift off, Joly turned his attention to Grantaire’s torso. As thin as Grantaire was, every rib stood out in sharp relief. The flesh over the injured rib was an angry red and swelling rapidly.

“This will be black and blue by tomorrow,” said Joly. He pushed gently on the area with his fingertips. Grantaire flinched. “Broken, I think, but not out of alignment. You should keep still for a few weeks. You can stay with us, if you don’t have anywhere else.”

He put his ear to Grantaire’s chest. “Breathe as deeply as you can manage, please.”

Grantaire tried his best.

Joly picked his head up and nodded. “You should be alright. I would wrap you, but it would make it harder for you to breathe. I know it hurts, but if you don’t breathe deeply enough, you could get sick. I’ve seen it happen. With your body as weak as it is, I don’t know if you’d survive it.”

Grantaire nodded. A few weeks of care before he had to figure out what to do with himself. It was more than he thought he’d get. A broken rib was a small price to pay. 

The smile was back on Joly’s face, though it faded a bit when he brushed his fingers across the back of Grantaire’s hand. “What’s your name?”

Grantaire wanted to tell him. But when he opened his mouth, he couldn’t do it. No sound came out. Finally, he gave up, shaking his head in frustration. The image of Claude’s smile popped into his head.

“Hey, it’s alright,” Joly soothed. “Let’s try something else. Writing is out, but maybe...” He went to the table and slid a piece of paper from under the writing kit. “Do you know your letters?” he asked, twisting his head to look at Grantaire.

Grantaire nodded.

“Excellent.” He brought the paper over to the bed and showed it to Grantaire. It was covered in writing.

As Grantaire scanned the page, he realized: this was a poem. Poetry.

 

_i look down at my hands_

_and they are inscrutable_

_they have no relation to what is not there_

 

Okay.

“Jehan writes it,” said Joly, breaking into Grantaire’s thoughts. “I thought we could try something. I’ll point to the letters. Give me a signal when I get to the letter you want and we’ll spell things out together. Let’s start with your name.”

His real name was off the table. Everyone in France knew the name Grantaire Damas. Seven years ago, at least.

Something else then. Grantaire waited until Joly’s finger drifted over the right letter, _R_ , and tilted his head up. 

“R,” said Joly. “Is that right?”

Grantaire nodded.

“Okay. What next?”

Grantaire shook his head again.

“R?” Joly lowered the paper. “Just R?”

Grantaire looked Joly in the eye, hoping to convey that he was serious. Louis used to call him R, back in the day. A joke, though not a funny one.

“Alright,” said Joly. “Whatever you want.” He stood and returned the paper to the table. “That’s enough for now, I think. You should sleep.”

Sleep. That sounded good.

 

* * *

 

Claude cradled Grantaire’s left hand in both of his. His skin was cool against Grantaire’s hot, swollen skin. Grantaire had often found himself in this position since he’d been imprisoned here. That was months ago.

“All you have to do is be quiet,” said Claude. Not gently, because Claude was incapable of gentleness, but reasonable. Like what he was saying was obvious. Normal. “Stop singing and this ends.”

There was no way Claude knew what he was asking. Grantaire could no more be silent than he could stop breathing. His voice, his music, was sustenance. It filled him up, took away his loneliness, helped him hold on.

His life was song. They were one and the same. It’s all he had left. If he gave in to Claude, he may as well be dead.

Grantaire braced himself. “No.”

Claude’s mouth turned down in disapproval. “Remember. This was your choice.”

He grabbed Grantaire’s smallest finger and bent it backwards. Grantaire screamed.

 

* * *

 

“Woah, easy there.”

Hands dropped onto Grantaire’s shoulders, pushing him down. Grantaire opened his eyes.

Morning had come. Soft sunlight illuminated the room, laying bare in the same way candlelight obscured. Grantaire wondered how he looked in daylight.

“You hungry?” asked Jehan. He held a bowl of porridge under Grantaire’s nose. “It’s hot.”

Grantaire sat up slowly, one arm clutched around his ribs, and took the bowl. While took a few tentative bites, the spoon slipping in his awkward grip, Jehan leaned back in the room’s chair and folded his arms across his chest.

“Hey, R?” he ventured. Grantaire glanced at him, but didn’t stop eating. “I want to thank you for yesterday.”

Grantaire kept eating.

“Joly said you were quiet,” Jehan said. “Seriously, though. That was decent of you. In a world as terrible as this one, that’s saying something.”

Grantaire met Jehan’s eyes. They were gray, almost blue, and bright. Little lines fanned out from their corners. The lines deepened when Jehan smiled.

Gathering his courage, Grantaire sank the spoon into the porridge. He looked past Jehan to the table and nodded at the papers there. Then he raised his eyebrows and pressed his hands to his chest, just over his heart. He ignored the stabbing pain in his side.

Jehan looked back at the table, then at Grantaire, then back to the table.

“Do you mean...” Jehan said. He reached back touched the papers lightly.

Grantaire widened his eyes and nodded.

“You read these?”

Grantaire concentrated on holding up one finger.

“You read one?”

Grantaire nodded.

“And you liked it?”

Again, Grantaire pressed his hands over his heart.

Jehan’s lips twitched. He reached up with both hands to tuck his hair behind his ears.

“Listen, brother,” he said, leaning forward. “I don’t see the point in talking in circles. Your hands. Your missing voice. Something terrible happened to you. Was done to you. And I think I know who’s responsible.”

Grantaire hid his hands under the quilt.

Jehan reached toward Grantaire, fingers stretched. “You don’t have to do that.”

He laid his hand on the bed, just short of Grantaire’s leg.

“I like you, R,” Jehan said. He leaned forward, a conspiratorial smile appearing on his face. “We should be friends.”


	2. a new man

The chalice Grantaire lifted from the box was a silver monstrosity. A bulge in the stem was set on all sides with rubies. Grape vines twined their way around the rim – a rim wider and deeper than most Grantaire had seen – while assorted flowers and woodland creatures frolicked around the base.

“This is obscene,” said Grantaire, genuinely awed. The glint of the sun off the silver was blinding.

“Right?” laughed Louis. He leaned into Grantaire’s side, edging the empty box off Grantaire’s lap. They sat together under the big oak in the Palace’s south garden, one of Grantaire’s favorite spots in Paris. He would often sit under the tree and sing or practice with his smaller instruments. Louis was a frequent visitor.

“I stole it from the archbishop,” Louis said. “I wouldn’t let him catch you with it.”

“It could hold two bottles of wine,” Grantaire marveled. Then he realized what Louis said. “Wait. This is Archbishop Talleyrand’s?”

Grantaire was impressed. Stealing from Talleyrand took guts. The man was a puritanical nightmare.

“Only the best for you, cousin.”

Grantaire looked over to see Louis grinning. His coloring was the same as Grantaire’s. Their mothers were sisters, and they’d both inherited dark hair, pale skin, and blue eyes from that side of the family. They looked like brothers.

They felt like brothers too. They were born only a month apart and raised together after Grantaire’s mother died.

Grantaire grinned back.

“You don’t turn twenty-one every day,” said Louis, climbing to his feet. He took Grantaire by the hand and helped him up. “And who knows how much longer I can be debaucherous with you. Father grips me tighter each passing month.”

“Good,” Grantaire joked. “Remember when you drank so much you tripped head first into a horse trough? We can’t have that in a king, now can we? You need to straighten up.”

“Absolutely not.”

Grantaire smiled and threw his arm over Louis’ shoulders. Louis put his arm around Grantaire’s shoulders too, then burst into a truly awful song. Grantaire laughed so hard he almost dropped the chalice.

Good friends, good drink, warm sun. What more could a man want?

 

* * *

 

Hot water. A whole tub of it. Steaming and everything. 

Grantaire had forgotten water could be hot.

“Need a hand?” Bossuet asked. He and Joly were both in the room. Jehan had gone out on business. All three of them left on business at the oddest hours, though at least one always stayed to look after Grantaire. In the face of their kindness, Grantaire hadn’t seen fit to question them. Jehan was already sleeping on the floor in his own room.

Grantaire waved Bossuet off and stepped into the bath himself. Water sloshed around his knees. It stung his skin, turned it red. Nothing had ever felt better. Bossuet offered his arm again and Grantaire used it to lower himself into the water. His head bumped the metal edge of the tub.

This is what heaven felt like.

Joly smiled at him. “I’m glad to see our struggle to get that hunk of metal up the stairs is appreciated.”

“Don’t forget the water,” added Bossuet. “Not that we weren’t happy to help, R, but I had to make about ten trips up the stairs.”

“Hush,” Joly said to Bossuet. “R deserves this.” He redirected his words at Grantaire. “And you need a wash too. The innkeeper was shocked at the state of the sheets. She said they were beyond saving and threw them out. Charged us extra.”

Grantaire grimaced apologetically. He may have ruined the sheets, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret it. Staying here had done wonders for him. The ache in his ribs was less, and the constant hunger was gone. Not to mention the hand exercises Joly had showed him; they hurt like hell, but the range of motion in a few of his fingers was already improving.

And most importantly: today was the first day Grantaire was well enough to bathe. Progress.

Joly let him soak for a few minutes to loosen up the grime before ordering Bossuet to kneel next to the tub, soap and wash clothes in hand.

“I’d wash you myself,” Joly said, sitting on the freshly made bed. “but I need to stay clean. Doctor’s prerogative.” He wiggled his fingers in the air.

Bossuet rolled his eyes. “A priss’ prerogative, more like.”

Grantaire’s lips twitched.

“See?” Bossuet said, pointing at Grantaire. “R thinks I’m funny. You could learn from him, Joly.”

“R is being polite.” Joly crossed his legs in a huff, leading Bossuet to laugh outright. “Oh, get on with it.”

Still chuckling, Bossuet dipped a cloth into the water, scrubbing it with soap as he went. When the suds were bubbling, he looked to Grantaire, a question in his eyes. Grantaire nodded his assent. His hands would make it difficult to wash himself with enough force to dislodge years of caked-on filth.

Bossuet nodded and started scrubbing the dirt from Grantaire’s back. Swirls of mud appeared in the tub.

It took a half hour and two full-body scrubs to get Grantaire clean. His hair and beard, both long, matted messes, took even longer. The water, which had cooled considerably by the end of the bath, was opaque. When it was over, Bossuet helped Grantaire out of the tub, wrapped him in a towel, and sat him in the room’s chair.

“Alright.” Joly came over, a pair of shears in his hand and a razor in the other. “Now we cut.”

Grantaire had been looking forward to this part as well. He’d gotten used to living with long, lank hair, but now it felt like dead weight. He’d kept his hair relatively short in his previous life, and he’d tried not to let his beard grow past stubble.

“How short?” Joly asked.

Grantaire pointed at Joly’s own hair in response. It was a good length, shorter than Jehan’s but long enough to run fingers through if the mood struck. Bossuet didn’t have hair, so he was out. Grantaire did not want to know what he would look like bald.

Maybe that was the real sign Grantaire was recovering. His vanity was coming back.

“And the beard? Should I shave it?”

Grantaire nodded vigorously.

Joly got to work. The first few cuts hurt a bit. The shears tugged at Grantaire’s wet hair and stretched his scalp. But the shears made it through, and Jehan was holding a ragged length of dark hair in front of Grantaire’s face. It was shot through with liberal amounts of gray.

Grantaire shook his head so the ends of his hair tickled his neck. His head felt incredibly light, like it would float right off his shoulders.

Joly continued his work, cutting the rest of Grantaire’s hair and shaving him. When he was finished, Bossuet was waiting with a pair of tan breeches, some underthings, and a shirt of course brown wool. Everything was clean and worn. Bossuet brought a shabby pair of farmer’s boots too, which Grantaire tried on briefly. They were only a little tight. Not bad.

Once Grantaire was dressed, Bossuet looked him up and down. “You’re a new man,” he said warmly. “Give it a month or two, and you’ll be filling out those clothes like a champ.”

Grantaire did his best to smile.

“As an added benefit,” Joly said, “I wager Jehan won’t recognize you now, let alone a guardsman.”

When Jehan came back the next day, Joly’s words proved true. Grantaire had the privilege of witnessing the greatest double take in history.

“R?” Jehan said, mouth hanging open. “You look twenty years younger.”

Grantaire sighed.

“Gods, R. You can’t be much older than me.” Jehan sat at the foot of the bed. His surprise was quickly fading to sadness. Grantaire shrank backwards.

“I’ve no right to ask this,” Jehan said, “but it’s eating me up. What happened to you? I mean, obviously you ran afoul of the King’s soldiers.” He picked up Grantaire’s knotted, scarred hand and held it in his warm one. “But what made them do this?”

Grantaire shook his head and retrieved his hand. Even if he could say the words aloud, he could only have said it was to silence his music. But in a thousand years of trying, he could not have told Jehan the reason why.

“No, of course you don’t want to say. Or can’t? It’s just...” Anger was edging into Jehan’s sadness. His hands clenched and found their way into his lap. “It’s wrong, isn’t it? That Louis and his goons can do whatever they like to whomever they like? So what if you stole or whatever? They shouldn’t get to treat people like this. It’s crime enough that so many people in this country are desperate enough to steal in the first place!”

Some compulsion drove Jehan to his feet. The muscles in shoulders bunched together. Grantaire wrapped his arms around his middle.

Jehan paced to the other side of the small room and looked over his shoulder at Grantaire. “Have you ever been to Paris?”

Grantaire shook his head. Not as he was now.

“I live in Paris,” said Jehan. He rested his hands on the table briefly before turning to face Grantaire. “It’s hard to face what it’s become under Louis. Not that things were great before, but these last ten years have brought more misery than I thought possible. Too many people have come looking for work in the factories. Every building in the lower city is occupied cellar to attic, fifteen people to a room. The walls are crumbling. There are no doors, which doesn’t matter because no one has anything to steal. Heaps of garbage and ash lie in piles every which way, feeding the rats and flies. And that’s to say nothing of the tens of thousands of people who have no homes, who sleep in the trash.”

Grantaire thought back to when he lived in Paris. The city had its share of poverty. How bad had it been? And Louis...he couldn’t believe Louis would stand idly by and let his city descend into ruin. Louis had never concerned himself much with the plight of the poor, but he wouldn’t let his own people live like that.

Then again, he let Grantaire rot in the Bastille.

Jehan sat in the chair, then stood up immediately. He came back to sit on the bed with Grantaire. “People are starving. And they’re so crowded together in their own filth that disease is a constant danger. Cholera swept through last winter. The slums were decimated.”

He took Grantaire’s hands again, holding them loosely. “What was done to you was unforgivable.” His blue eyes met Grantaire’s. “Louis goes after poets, you know. Painters and musicians too. Artists who take the truth seriously. So many of my friends have disappeared.”

Disappeared like Grantaire disappeared.

“And that’s why...” Jehan trailed off, then leaned forward. “I’m going to tell you something. Something about me and Joly and Bossuet. I think you deserve to know. I think I can trust you. Can I trust you?”

Grantaire’s mouth felt dry, but he nodded anyway. The three of them had already given Grantaire so much. He would never betray them. Even if he’d wanted to, who would he tell? The people who’d locked him up?

Jehan smiled. “Have you ever heard of the Friends?”

Grantaire frowned. The Friends. A group of revolutionaries who wanted to overthrow the monarchy. A group of delusional crusaders who believed an impossible dream was worth more than their lives. A group of dead men.

“That’s why we’re here,” Jehan said. “We’re in the Friends. We’re on a mission. There’s supposed to be someone here, around Grenoble, that can help us. Who can put on end to Louis’ tyranny. All we have to do is find him.”

Grantaire held out his hands, palms facing the ceiling, his confusion written across his face.

Jehan squinted. “Why do we want to stop Louis?”

Grantaire nodded.

Jehan took a moment to gather his thoughts. His gaze grew distant. “Different people have different reasons. I joined after I saw the slums for the first time. This world is ugly and hard, but it doesn’t have to be that ugly, if you know what I mean.” His eyes moved back to Grantaire’s. “Other people joined after they lost someone or because they thought it was the right thing to do. The Friends are good people.”

Jehan lifted a hand to Grantaire’s face, but stopped before he touched skin. When Grantaire didn’t move, Jehan laid his palm against Grantaire’s now-beardless face. “You’re smart. You’ve got a sense of humor too. I can see your eyes laugh sometimes. You were something before you were this, something wonderful. Not that you aren’t now, but...I don’t think us meeting was coincidence. All the stables in the world and you stumble into mine?”

The skin of Grantaire’s cheek warmed under Jehan’s hand.

“We can help you, R,” said Jehan. He sounded like he meant it. “I know you’re scared. I don’t blame you. Louis crushed you under his boot. But we can help you, if you let us.” His thumb brushed some of the wetness away from Grantaire’s eye. “It’s what we do. Please let us help you.”

Grantaire grabbed Jehan’s wrist as well as he could and leaned into his hand. Why not.

“Thank you,” said Jehan. He kissed Grantaire’s forehead. “Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

Another week passed. With the help of his three keepers, Grantaire improved. He could finally take a deep breath without wanting to pass out, though Joly said his frequent coughing was still a matter of extreme gravity. Regular meals of soup and bread and cheese helped him gain a little weight.

Still, he refused to look at himself in the little silver mirror Jehan owned. He was too afraid of what he’d see.

He took to sitting by the open window at night. He was under strict orders not to leave the room by himself. Not that he would anyway. The gods only knew who might be looking for him. But he was done with feeling like a prisoner. Sometimes he would peer into the blackness, his eyes drawn to the little lights that flickered in nearby windows. Other times he would tilt his head back and look at the sky, or close his eyes and feel wind on his face. It was Grantaire’s first new hobby in a long time, and it was amazing.

Much to Grantaire’s delight, an old hobby made a reappearance at the end of his second week out of the Bastille. Jehan brought a bottle of wine back to the room.

“I hope you don’t mind,” said Jehan. The bottle in his hand was black glass, thick and squat. The wine went right up to the top. “I filled it from the cask in the basement. I didn’t feel like drinking in the common room.”

Grantaire remembered wine. The acidic tang of the best reds. The way it felt as it slid across his tongue and down his throat. Smooth, perfect. For the first year or so of his imprisonment, he would sometimes dream he was swimming in a lake of wine. The dreams faded eventually, along with everything else.

Jehan took off his jacket and hung it on one of the pegs by the door. His expressive face lit up with amusement. “Would you like some?”

Grantaire closed his eyes and nodded. Before he could open them again, Jehan was pressing a tin cup into his hands.

He lifted the cup to his lips and drank.

 

* * *

 

“You can’t do this to me!” screamed Grantaire. He pounded on the door, a task made more difficult by the way his hands were tied to together. He wasn’t blind folded anymore, but that hardly mattered. The room was black as pitch. “I haven’t done anything! I want to talk to Louis! I haven’t done anything. 

Grantaire let his pounding decrease in intensity until his fist were merely resting on the door. This whole screaming and yelling routine hadn’t gotten him anywhere last night and it wouldn’t get him anywhere this morning.

Calm was best. This was all a mistake. Someone was coming for him. He was famous. People knew him. They would notice he was missing, and they would come. Everything would be fine.

Setting his back to the door, Grantaire held his hands in front of him and walked until he felt the opposite wall. Then he sat. He could wait this out.

Hours passed. Days passed. He hummed to pass the time, making up new melodies for new songs. After a while, he started to harmonize with the gurgling in his stomach. So preoccupied was he with his music and his hunger, he almost didn’t notice the tremor starting in his bound hands.

The headache was harder to miss, when it came. So were the sweating and the cramps. When he was forced to his knees so he could vomit the meager contents of his stomach, he started to feel real fear.

Not now. Oh, gods, not now. This had happened to him before, and it always got worse before it got better.

He went to the door again, his hands feeling ahead of him. “I’m sick!” he yelled. For all he knew, he was yelling at an empty room. “I need water!”

He needed a drink.

 

* * *

 

A rooster crowed in the yard and woke Grantaire at dawn. The room was fuzzy and gray, the corners still lost in shadow. Grantaire felt the same.

He eased himself into a sitting position, his head in his hands. That one cup of wine Jehan had given him had been enough to send him straight to sleep. His imprisonment had taken his tolerance for drink along with everything else.

Grantaire looked at the desk. The black bottle was sitting there, a shadow against the shadows. He wondered if it would taste the same today as it did last night.

Grantaire swung his legs over the side of the bed and let his feet rest on the floor. He wiggled his toes. He could feel the chill of the floor through his stockings. He took a deep breath and then he was standing in front of the desk.

The bottle was cool in his hand. He pressed it against his cheek. Jehan must not have had much last night either. The bottle was almost full.

Grantaire still had the bottle pressed against his face when the door opened. He pulled the bottle away quickly, embarrassed that Jehan would find him in such a position. But it wasn’t Jehan.

A stranger stood just in front of the door. He was dressed well but simply, in fitted black trousers, a black waistcoat over a white shirt, and a dark jacket. A traveling cloak was thrown over the lot, but Grantaire couldn’t tell whether it was black or blue. A hood was pulled over the man’s head, obscuring his face.

Grantaire shifted his grip to the bottle’s neck. The bottle, as wielded by Grantaire, would be nearly useless in a fight, but it made Grantaire feel better. Evidently, he’d progressed in his mental recovery to the point where he was once again comforted by illusion.

The man held up his hands. “You’re R?”

His accent was smooth and precise, every syllable fully formed. Upper class then, possibly nobility. Grantaire used to speak like that, but he hadn’t heard the sound on another’s lips in a long while. Joly, Bossuet, and Jehan were from the merchant class. He also knew Grantaire’s name.

Grantaire brandished the bottle at the stranger. It was pathetic, how little he could do to defend himself. He couldn’t even scream for help.

The man held his hands out farther, but made no other move. “Jehan wrote me about you,” he said evenly. Grantaire’s skin prickled. He couldn’t see the man’s eyes well, but he could tell the man was looking him over. “He told me you lost your voice. But he also told me you knew I was coming. Sometimes it’s hard to tell if he’s serious.”

Jehan had mentioned other Friends were coming to join in the search for whomever it was they were searching for. But he hadn’t said the man would burst into their room at dawn, cloaked and hooded.

Whatever the man saw on Grantaire’s face had him putting his hands down. “He did tell you?”

Embarrassed, Grantaire ducked his head. His cheeks warmed.

“Excellent,” said the man. He lowered the hood.

The head underneath the hood was exceptional. The skin was pale, appropriate for a body kept inside all winter. It would no doubt darken under the summer sun, maybe freckle. The lips were full but turned down. This man was not easily pleased. Prominent nose and brow. Long eyes set a bit too far apart for his beauty to be of the comfortable sort.

Grantaire could feel more blood rushing to his face. Intellectually, Grantaire recognized that Jehan was handsome. The type of person he’d have gone for in his old life, for sure. But he hadn’t felt real attraction. He hadn’t been sure he could feel that way anymore.

Here was definitive proof that he could still _desire_ , even if he could do nothing else. This man was _attractive._ Grantaire found himself relieved he could still feel attraction.

He felt a faint pull of recognition as well. He had seen this man before. He was sure of it. Since the man was posh, it was possible they had crossed paths at some party or another in Grantaire’s old life. He’d known a lot of people back then.

The possibility he’d met this man before should make Grantaire nervous. Perhaps, if there had been the barest spark of recognition in the man’s blue eyes. But there wasn’t.

“I’m Enjolras,” the man, Enjolras, said. He raised his eyebrows at Grantaire. “I’d like to thank you for your assistance to the Friends. Now, if you’d kindly lower the bottle. Duty calls.”

Grantaire dropped his arm and hastily moved aside. Enjolras brushed past him, going immediately to the papers under Jehan’s writing kit. He rifled through them while Grantaire watched. His fingers were long and nimble. They’d look good stringing a violin or wrapped around flute.

Enjolras found what he was looking for quickly. He pulled the piece of paper from the stack and slid the rest back under the box. He walked out of the room, his eyes never leaving the paper.

After Enjolras left, Grantaire sat heavily on the bed. He spent the next few hours tracing and retracing the ugly topography of his broken hands, the wine forgotten.

 

* * *

 

Enjolras’ arrival changed the tenor of Grantaire’s little group of keepers. Before, the three would venture out in shifts. One or more of them was always there to keep Grantaire company, to eat with him or read to him or whatever. Now all them, including Enjolras, were gone. Constantly. They returned occasionally, always exhausted, to sleep or change clothes, but that was it. 

Enjolras wasn’t unkind per se, but his intensity was catching. Grantaire saw him little and talked to him even less, but it was clear Enjolras pushed himself hard. He took it for granted that the people he surrounded himself with would push themselves equally hard, and they did. Even Grantaire felt the pull.

On one of Jehan’s rare visits to the room, Grantaire decided it wouldn’t hurt to find out more about the search. He knew he wasn’t good for much, not with how he was, but maybe if he knew more he could help. Repay his keepers in some small way for the kindness they’d shown him.

Jehan was sitting at the desk, chewing a piece of bread and staring at the wall. Grantaire went to stand beside him. When Jehan looked up, Grantaire laid a hand on the writing box. Pointing at letters got old fast, and he’d been practicing holding the pen since Joly had shown him the exercises for his hands. He’d had nothing but time to practice since Enjolras showed up.

“Hmmm?”

Grantaire flipped open the writing box and took out the ink pot.

Jehan’s tired eyes crinkled in delight. “Seriously?” he said, patting Grantaire’s arm with the hand that wasn’t holding bread. “You can manage?”

Grantaire nodded. Jehan stood to let Grantaire sit at the desk.

Grantaire readied everything, then carefully wrapped his fingers around the steel-nibbed pen. He started to write, the letters shaky and child-like.

_Who are you looking for?_

Jehan put his hands on Grantaire’s shoulders and read the writing over his head. “Yeah, okay,” he said. “Um, we’re looking for a man who was exiled to the countryside in this area a while back. The details are mostly need-to-know, but he dropped off the map a few weeks after he got here and no one’s seen him since. But we heard he’s still in the area, so here we are. We’ve been taking turns riding out to nearby farms, villages, manors, that sort of thing. No luck yet.”

Grantaire listened closely, then bent over the paper again.

_Why now?_

“Because of Enjolras. We’ve been getting stronger for years. We’re almost ready. He’s the final piece. One of our members found out he’d resurfaced around here.”

_Because Enjolras says?_

Jehan laughed into Grantaire’s hair. “Yeah, sorry about him. He’s not very social.” He smoothed his hands across Grantaire’s shoulders. “Honestly though, yeah. Enjolras is pretty damn sure this guy’s the one. And even if I didn’t trust Enjolras, which I do, I would trust my own ability to count. The number of national guardsmen in this area has tripled since we got here. How much do you want to bet it’s because they’re looking for someone too?”

All the muscles in Grantaire’s body stiffened. It was an automatic response, completely beyond his control. A thousand voices were screaming at him in his head: _They’re coming for you._ Each voice sounded like Claude.

Jehan, with his hands on Grantaire’s shoulders, noticed. He began to massage Grantaire’s shoulders, an attempt to ease the sudden tension. “I know it doesn’t mean much, since they’re the ones who hurt you, but we can protect you. I don’t want to lie, but you’re safer here than you’d be anywhere else. They’re not looking for you.”

When Grantaire could convince himself to move, he corralled his hand into writing another question.

_Why is he so important?_

Jehan’s hands slowed. “I wish I could tell you, R. But I can’t. Not yet.” He ran a hand through Grantaire’s hair. “Let’s keep going though. I hate not knowing what you’re thinking. This way I don’t have to guess.”

Grantaire took a deep breath and put the pen back to the paper.

 

* * *

 

Grantaire sat in front of the window, sweating and sipping wine. Joly insisted he take light exercise to aid his recovery. At first, that had meant walking a few circles around the room. As the weeks marched on, he’d graduated to walks up and down the hall. Today was the first day Joly had given permission for him to conquer the stairs. 

He’d only been able to walk up to the third floor and back three times, but he felt as if he’d climbed a mountain. Fear was ever present, but his strength was returning. If they came for him, he might be able to evade them. He’d be able to hide up a flight of stairs, at least, which is more than he’d been able to do six weeks ago.

He was still sitting there, sweating and sipping wine, when Enjolras came in. Grantaire was instantly uncomfortable. Enjolras never failed to make him feel like he should sit up straighter.

“Evening,” Enjolras greeted him.

Grantaire wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Can I wait with you?” Enjolras continued. “Some more of us are coming tonight. I want to meet them when they arrive.” He paused for a few seconds, taking in the orange glow of the setting sun. The light made his hair look like fire. “Do you have food?”

Grantaire had stashed an apple in the desk earlier. He leaned back to retrieve it, then tossed it underhand to Enjolras.

“Thanks.”

Enjolras inched his body across the bed until his back was against the wall. He settled and bit the apple. The wet crunch made Grantaire flinch.

They sat together for a while, Enjolras crunching and Grantaire doing his best to look at anything but Enjolras. It was awkward. For Grantaire, anyway. Enjolras seemed as focused on eating the apple as he was on everything else. He even stared at it between bites. Maybe he didn’t know how to talk to someone who couldn’t talk back? Joly, Bossuet, and Jehan didn’t have a problem with it, but they were special cases. Any of them would talk to a wall if it nodded every once in a while.

“So.”

Grantaire’s eyes snapped to Enjolras.

“The national guard did this to you.”

Grantaire cut his gaze back to the window as quick as he could. He did not want to have this conversation. Not with Enjolras.

But Enjolras didn’t stop. “No, it’s alright. You’re not the first victim I’ve met.”

Oh, no.

“I know tons of people just like you. You’re not unique.”

Grantaire snuck a look at Enjolras. He was staring at Grantaire, his beautiful face alive with determination and...was that compassion? Oh, gods, the man thought he was helping.

Enjolras leaned forward when he saw Grantaire looking at him. “I want you to know I’m fighting for you. For all of you, every broken person tossed aside by the monarchy. Soon Louis will be gone, and you’ll have justice. I swear it.”

Enjolras leaned back, but continued to look at Grantaire expectantly. What he was expecting, Grantaire couldn’t begin to fathom. Grantaire turned back to the window instead, his cup grasped between gnarled hands. Nothing to see here. Just one more broken person.

He actually heard Enjolras frown.

“Why don’t you speak?”

Grantaire closed his eyes.

“I asked Joly. He said nothing is physically preventing you. You can, but you don’t.”

Except he couldn’t. No matter how much he tried, he couldn’t get words out. The problem was in his head, hammered into the depths of his mind by Claude and years of silence, and it was real.

But he couldn’t say any of that. He could only shake his head.

Enjolras made a frustrated noise. “I don’t know you. But sometimes I think if I could hear your voice, I would know how to help you. You sit here, every day, watching and...just watching.”

Grantaire put the cup down on the floor.

“R. Look at me.”

Fine.

“We can do the writing thing, if you want. Jehan told me–”

Grantaire lifted his head and looked Enjolras right in the eye. Stared him down. Then he slashed his arms across his chest before bringing one hand to his mouth and jerking it forward toward Enjolras. The meaning had to be clear: _Stop. Talking._

Enjolras’ eyes widened, then narrowed. His face was a paradox; Grantaire wanted to look at it and not look at it at the same time.

Enjolras jumped to his feet, fists clenched. He gave Grantaire a long look, one full of frustration and no small amount of anger. Without another word, he turned on his heel and blew out of the room.

The apple core lay on the bed, forgotten.


	3. random tragedy

Gillenormand’s estate rivaled any the royal family had to offer on its worst night. Visitors were first shown down a wide, smooth drive that culminated in a circular pond. The pond itself was something out of a dream: fat fish flitted among the reeds while a statuesque woman in the middle of the pond shot water to the sky. From there, visitors were led between two life-size Pegasuses up the walkway that bisected the manor’s terraced front lawn.

No matter the time of year the grass was always vibrant green. Though Grantaire knew the lawn represented fantastic waste, he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not when the result was so pleasing.

Just in front of the manor, the walkway spilled outward onto an enormous stone patio. Complicated twists of black and white stone covered the ground. Delicate wrought iron fences marked the boundary from patio back to grass. If the visitor were to turn, they would be treated with the best view within a day's ride of Paris: gently sloping pasture and meadows of wildflower stretching to the horizon and back.

On Midsummer, the Gillenormand estate was at its best. Glowing orange lanterns hung every ten feet or so along the terrace walkway, two to a pole. Fire crackled in great braziers between the lanterns. The combination lit the walk as well as daylight. Servants circulated on the patio with trays of champagne, fruits, chocolates, and meat. Musicians, jugglers, and acrobats flitted along the edges of the crowd, obliging those who wished to be entertained. Later in the evening, fireworks would crackle across the sky.

Sumptuous fun, good food, drink, music, friends. Gillenormand’s Midsummer fête was Grantaire’s favorite party of the year.

Louis linked his arm with Grantaire’s as they strolled up the terrace walk. The party was already in full swing when they arrived. People milled about, laughing and drinking. They walked close to the lanterns, hoping to avoid the society folk Louis hated the most: Plamondon, Jacques. Javert.

“Will you be gracing us with a performance, cousin?” Louis asked. He flipped up his mask to get a better look at Grantaire. “I only request you begin before I’m too far into my cups to enjoy you.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “So, sooner rather than later is what you’re saying.”

“Knew I could count on you, R.”

They hit the balcony, and Grantaire untangled himself to snag some passing champagne. He gave one glass to Louis, who snaked his arm through Grantaire’s so they could drink out of each other’s glasses.

“You do the toast,” said Louis, smiling. “The first of Midsummer. Before the night gets away from us.”

Grantaire smiled back. “Alright then,” he said. “To harmony. In all its forms.”

“To harmony,” Louis echoed. “In all its forms.”

They drank together.

Before Grantaire could finish that first glass, he and Louis were hailed by Marius. Marius was Gillenormand’s grandson. Though Marius was a few years younger than Grantaire and Louis, they’d already run in the same circles for years.

“Hey!” Marius gushed. He weaved his way over, a young woman following in his wake. He gave Louis a small bow and clapped Grantaire on the shoulder. “Thanks for coming!”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Louis said warmly. He took the woman’s free hand and kissed it. “Who’s your friend, Marius?”

“Oh, right! This is Eponine.”

Most of the fashionable ladies in attendance had their hair piled atop their heads. Eponine’s dark hair fell loose around her shoulders. That probably meant she wasn’t from the noble class, and all the better for it. Gillenormand must be furious.

“This is Prince Louis,” Marius went on, putting his hand on Eponine’s elbow. “And this is the Prince’s cousin, Grantaire Damas.”

“Highness,” she said, curtsying at Louis. “A pleasure, truly. But if you’ll excuse me...”

She turned to Grantaire. “Are you really Grantaire Damas? _The_ Grantaire Damas?” 

Grantaire could have laughed forever at the sour look on Louis’ face. He bent over double, clutching his side, the rest of his champagne spilling on the ground.

“Yes, he’s _the_ Grantaire Damas,” said Louis, giving a wry twist to the words. He gave Eponine his most charming smile. “There’s no use being a prince when he’s around. Honestly. Everyone wants the musician.”

Eponine considered Grantaire where he was bent over, hands on his knees, panting for breath. His face must have been bright red.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Incredibly attractive.”

That set Grantaire laughing all over again.

Louis, too, was amused. “Where did you find her, Marius?”

“As if.” Eponine slid her hand up Marius’ arm. Her smile turned wicked. “I found him.”

Marius twisted a piece of her hair around one his fingers. “That she did,” he said. “We were in the...hey!” Something caught his eye past Eponine’s head. “That’s my friend.”

Marius waved his hand over his head like a child in the schoolyard. “Courf! COURF!”

So summoned, Marius’ friend materialized at the edge of their group. He had a full head of dark, curly hair that balanced nicely against the severe angles of his face. He looked like a curly-haired hawk more than anything.

Marius shook his hand. “Everyone, this is my good friend Courfeyrac. We met at university. Courfeyrac, may I introduce you to my old friends the Prince – Louis to us – and Grantaire Damas. And Eponine, you know.”

Courfeyrac bowed to Louis. “Such company you keep, Marius,” he said cheerfully. He bowed to Grantaire next. Just as he hit the lowest point of the bow, he looked up at Grantaire through his lashes and winked. “If I’d known your old friends were so good looking, I would have asked for introductions sooner.”

Louis threw his hands in the air, then jabbed an accusatory finger at Courfeyrac. “See? This is what I have to deal with.” He threw a mock glare at Grantaire. “I should tell them about the time you set your hair on fire when we were scaring bats in the Lombrives. I had to throw you in the lake to put it out.”

“I was eight years old! And you fell in the lake after you threw me, you ass.”

Courfeyrac tilted his head to the side, confused and amused.

“Don’t mind them,” explained Marius. “They’re always like that.”

“Grantaire is more popular,” added Eponine. She gave Louis a pitying look. “Doesn’t bode well for the future of the monarchy, does it?”

Louis folded his hands across his chest and let his mouth drop open, feigning shock. “Well I never,” he said. He dropped his hands and leaned closer to Courfeyrac. “Seriously though, if you want to put the moves on my cousin you’ll need to act fast. He’s the prize pig at the market.”

Grantaire punched Louis’ arm before he turned to Courfeyrac. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Courfeyrac said. He smiled slowly, dark eyes twinkling. “It was good advice.”

“I’m sorry?”

Courfeyrac answered by stepping close, taking Grantaire’s face in his hands, and kissing him firmly on the mouth.

The hoots and hollers of Grantaire’s friends rose above the noise of the crowd and echoed off the curved stone walls on the far side of the patio. Courfeyrac pulled back with a flourish, cheeks flushed, hands still holding Grantaire.

Courfeyrac threw his head back and let out a mighty _whoop_ of joy. When he finished, he met Grantaire’s eyes. “Did it work?” he asked breathlessly.

Everyone was looking at them. Grantaire looked around, his eyes lighting on a beautiful blond man standing alone, his back to the railing. The man’s face pinched in stern disapproval. Grantaire winked at him and laughed.

He needed to let it in, Courfeyrac’s spirit. Wanted to feel it inside him, on his skin, everywhere. He pulled Courfeyrac into him, singing the night into his lips.

 

* * *

 

“We’re venturing farther afield,” Bossuet explained. “Now that we have more people, we can expand the search.”

He and Joly were tossing a leather ball filled with sand back and forth. The ball’s primary purpose was to aid in Grantaire’s recovery – he squeezed it over and over to help strengthen his grip – but it had been temporarily repurposed.

“They’ll be back soon,” Joly said. He was sitting on the floor under the window, his shirt unbuttoned. The twilight was unusually warm, even for late spring. He caught the ball in his left hand and lobbed it back to Bossuet.

The ball went through Bossuet’s hands and hit him in the face. Bossuet fell back, rattling the door on its hinges.

Grantaire sat up on the bed as Joly crawled to Bossuet. Joly was laughing, but he still took the other man’s head in his hands and checked him over. A consummate carer, that one.

Grantaire was glad there were people like Joly. He was glad there were people like Bossuet as well. Steady people, strong people. And people like Jehan. Honest and daring. He was glad and relieved and hopeful that his years in the Bastille hadn’t destroyed all beauty and goodness in the world.

Just in him, maybe.

Perhaps suffering was harder to bear when it seemed arbitrary. Nevertheless, if Grantaire were to contemplate the random tragedy of his life, to force it to make sense, he would go mad. Right here, in this little room in The Corinth, he would lose his mind. And as a special treat, all of it would happen in complete silence.

“R,” Joly said, stilling, “I hear them.”

Grantaire twitched. He didn’t want things to be awkward, or more awkward than they’d been. He didn’t want Enjolras to make him leave.

Joly and Bossuet picked themselves up and went into the hall. Grantaire stood as well, though he went to stand in the corner by the desk. Best not to be on the bed when Enjolras came in. Wouldn’t want to seem too useless.

Jehan came in first.

“Hey, R,” he said, his voice and movements uncharacteristically terse. Instead of stripping off his jacket like normal, he went straight to his pack and hauled it onto the desk. “Get your things. You can put them in my bag. We have to move.”

Everything Grantaire owned in the world was already on his body. Alarmed, Grantaire tapped Jehan on the shoulder.

Jehan gathered his papers carefully. “The geniuses at the national guard finally decided it would be worth their time to search all the buildings in Grenoble. Tonight. They’re getting as desperate as we are, and we’d rather they not find us by accident.”

Grantaire’s heart sped up.

Jehan noticed Grantaire’s distress. His face eased, just a touch. “You’re coming with us, of course. You’re strong enough. And we’re not going far.”

Enjolras burst through the door next, his own pack slung over his shoulder. His eyes honed in on Grantaire immediately. Other than the pack, Enjolras looked how he always looked. Intimidating, unreal. Capable and steady. Unafraid.

Grantaire breathed out slowly.

“R,” Enjolras said. He picked up the ball Bossuet dropped and tossed it to Jehan. “You’re ready?”

Grantaire nodded. So Enjolras didn’t want to leave him behind either.

“Good. We’ll be sleeping under the stars tonight, so take the quilt. I’ll not have you freeze to death on the road.”

Grantaire’s brow furrowed. He wasn’t that weak.

Enjolras, of course, misinterpreted.

“I’ll leave payment,” he said quickly. “I wouldn’t steal from The Corinth. I just need – Bahorel! Come in here!”

The last part was shouted at someone in the hall. One of the new arrivals. Another Friend.

The man who came through the door was long. Long limbs, long face, long auburn hair falling around his long face. Stylish too, if Grantaire was still capable of judging such things. The man’s tight breeches certainly made a statement. He greeted Grantaire with a tip of his head.

Then another man came through the door, just behind Bahorel. Grantaire froze, a startled deer too shocked to react.

Across the room, Courfeyrac was not having the same problem. His strides ate up the space between them, and then he was standing _right there_.

“Grantaire, is that...”

Courfeyrac touched Grantaire’s cheek with the tips of his fingers, but his eyes were everywhere. They went to the gray in Grantaire’s hair to the lines around his eyes to the way his skin seemed to stretch across his bones. They went down his body, down his arms, and landed on his hands.

Grantaire had never seen Courfeyrac horrified. His eyes were big and wet, and, yes, those were tears.

Courfeyrac let his hands fall near Grantaire’s, but didn’t touch.

“Oh, gods,” Courfeyrac whispered. His voice was shaking, his eyes jumping back and forth between Grantaire’s hands. “Grantaire!” His eyes came back to Grantaire’s face, and he let out a sob. At the same time, he threw his arms around Grantaire’s body. His grip wasn’t tight, but it was solid. “It’s you. I can’t believe it.”

Grantaire sagged a bit, his knees unable to hold his weight. He squeezed his eyes closed and let Courfeyrac hold him up. He didn’t know what he was feeling. Too much at once. His old life and his new life colliding.

Courfeyrac.

“We’ve been looking for you,” Courfeyrac whispered into his ear. “Ever since you disappeared. We never stopped. Never.”

“What’s...” Enjolras started. “What’s going on?”

Grantaire pressed Courfeyrac closer. If he let go, he would have to explain.

But Courfeyrac couldn’t read his mind. He pulled away from Grantaire, gently.

“Why didn’t anyone tell me he’d been found?” Courfeyrac asked, wiping his nose with his sleeve. “Or that he was hurt?” He turned a glare on Enjolras. “You said he’d been exiled. A simple life in the country. Look at his hands!”

Everyone was staring at Grantaire now, but Grantaire was staring at the floor. He couldn’t process this. His struggled to let go of the thoughts flitting wildly through his mind.

Enjolras sounded like he was experiencing a similar struggle. “R is Grantaire Damas?”

“Enjolras, you must be kidding,” said Courfeyrac. “Yeah, he looks different now, but this is Grantaire! You told me you’d seen him before.”

Grantaire looked up, startled.

“I did see him,” said Enjolras slowly. His skin was blanching before Grantaire’s eyes. His face, his neck, his hands. The color was draining out them. “Briefly, once. I thought I’d recognize him. I was sure I’d know. I didn’t expect...” His eyes snapped to Jehan. “You said he’d been taken for theft.”

Jehan shook his head helplessly. “I said he’d _probably_ been taken for theft. If I’d even suspected, you know I would have said something.”

“This is stupid,” muttered Courfeyrac. He held his hand out to Grantaire. “Why don’t you tell us what happened. However much you can.”

If there was ever a time to get over his block, it was now. But he couldn’t. The air in his throat felt frozen solid. Like it was choking him. He could only stare at Courfeyrac, his mouth opening and closing like a fish on dry land.

“It’s okay,” said Courfeyrac. A watery smile flickered on his lips. “I don’t know why you kept yourself a secret. It doesn’t matter. I’m just glad you fell in with the right people. You always were a lucky bastard.”

A lucky bastard wouldn’t have been sent to the Bastille in the first place. 

“I’m here now,” Courfeyrac soothed. He grabbed hold of the edge of Grantaire’s sleeve. “We’ll figure this out.”

Grantaire wanted to crumple into himself. It was a relief when Enjolras finally answered for him.

“R has never spoken,” Enjolras said. “Not a word to us, ever.”

A long moment of ringing silence followed Enjolras’ declaration. Courfeyrac looked at the faces of everyone in the room like he was waiting for someone to contradict what had just been said. When that didn’t happen, he came back to Grantaire.

“You can’t...”

Grantaire shook his head.

Courfeyrac’s hands came up to cover his mouth. There was that horror again.

“Your hands,” he said, a terrible understanding emerging in his eyes, his posture, his being. “Your voice. They did this. They took your music.”

Grantaire inclined his head. They most certainly had.

 

* * *

 

In the fourth month of Louis’ reign, Grantaire received an urgent summons to the royal palace. Grantaire had just returned from two months journeying through England, and he was exhausted. As was his custom when in Paris, Grantaire was staying with Marius and Courfeyrac. Though Courfeyrac had long since graduated, he and Marius still kept a lovely suite of rooms near the university. Grantaire loved it there. 

Over the past few years, Grantaire had grown closer to Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac was fair and intelligent, fun, good at deflating inflated egos, and rock-solid dependable. Grantaire had never spared thought to putting down roots, but now, at twenty-eight, he was starting to reconsider. If the gods ever saw fit to leave him room for passions other than music, he could see himself becoming attached to his joyful, steadfast hawk.

For the time being, however, nothing compared to music. Nothing made him feel more connected, less alone. It was like someone else was there, in his head, in every crack and corner of his mind.

The three of them were sitting down to dinner when the royal summons came. Grantaire excused himself. He hadn’t seen Louis since the coronation four months ago. He’d probably sent for Grantaire as soon as he heard his cousin was in town.

When he reached the palace, Grantaire was shown to one of the small private gardens and told to wait. The garden was elegantly manicured with clumps of perfect flowers, squared-off shrubbery, and a copper fountain. The evening was cool, the lingering light soft on the green. Grantaire sat on the edge of the fountain. The soft sound of the water bubbling and splashing into the pool at its base had its own kind of melody. Grantaire hummed along to it, memorizing it for later. The notes would do well on a piano.

It wasn’t long before Louis swept into the garden and interrupted Grantaire’s song. He was as elegantly attired as his garden, but Grantaire could tell his new role wasn’t sitting well on him. His green satin shirt and black silk cape could not disguise the tired slope of his shoulders. He’d grown a beard since Grantaire last saw him, making him look years older. A golden circlet pressed down on his hair.

Grantaire stood, embracing Louis tightly.

“I’ve missed you,” said Louis, motioning for Grantaire to walk beside him. “I haven’t had a moment of peace since...you know.”

Since his father’s death. Grantaire nodded. They walked in silence for a while. Grantaire thought it best to wait for Louis to make the next move. They went in a circle before coming back to the copper fountain.

 “You’ve just returned from England,” Louis said abruptly. It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes.”

“What were you doing there?”

The question was serious, so Grantaire gave it a serious answer. “I was traveling, playing. I sang in eleven cities and more villages than I can count. I never slept in the same bed more than three days running. I spent one night out on the moors in the north. I can’t tell you why, except that I heard the song of a skylark I’d never heard before. That was memorable.”

Louis might have been able to repeat Grantaire’s words back to him, so intently did he listen.

“You went to Windsor. You played for King George.”

The slightest twinge of...not guilt, but something else – pride or rebellion, maybe – touched Grantaire. France and England were not on the best of terms. Grantaire didn’t think much of politics, but he believed he was helping by playing for the King of England. Mending fences and all that.

“I was invited,” Grantaire said. He smiled at Louis. “You know it’s my policy to accept any invitation I can. This one was too good to pass up.”

Louis made a noise of frustration. “You can’t do whatever you want anymore, R. Things have changed. I’m walking the edge of a blade here. There are rumors of rebellion. Your name’s been mentioned.”

Grantaire snorted. “That’s stupid, Louis. It’s just people talking.”

“But it’s not.” Louis turned away from Grantaire, paced a few steps, then turned and paced back. “You’re not taking this seriously.”

“Of course I’m not!” Grantaire laughed. “It’s ridiculous. You’re my oldest friend. We’re practically brothers! The rumors will fade, like they always do. I don’t know why you’re so upset.”

Louis shook his head. “Stay away from England.”

“But why–”

“Stay away!”

Grantaire shut his mouth, stunned.

Louis’ face was wild. “Don’t speak of England, don’t speak of insurrection, nothing. I won’t have it. In fact, you are to remain in Paris indefinitely. Do you understand me? I won’t have you traipsing around the country where I can’t keep an eye on you. You are forbidden to leave Paris. Forbidden.”

“Louis, listen,” Grantaire spluttered.

Louis cut him off. “No, Grantaire. I’m not speaking as your cousin or your friend. I am your King. You will do as I say or suffer the consequences.”

By the time Grantaire gathered his wits, Louis was leaving. He was met at the garden’s entrance by a stern-faced man in the blue uniform of a guard officer. The gold dragon pin that signified his rank was stuck to his lapel, the ruby eye visible from a distance.

Javert, general in the national guard and one of Louis’ least favorite people. Or, he had been.

Louis and Javert conferred for a moment, then disappeared inside the palace. Grantaire ran after them, desperate to speak with Louis, but two guards barred the way. A chamberlain appeared silently at Grantaire’s elbow and pointed him discreetly to the side gate that led out of the palace.

Grantaire returned to the palace the next day to learn that Louis had left Paris to inspect his troops in the north. His staff informed Grantaire that Louis wasn’t planning to return for at least three months, and no, there was no way Grantaire could have an audience with him. Louis had  left Javert to manage in his absence, and, no, Grantaire could not have an audience with Javert either.

Uncertain and distressed, Grantaire wandered back to Marius’ and Courfeyrac’s rooms. Louis had never acted like this. He’d never used his authority against Grantaire, never ordered him. He hadn’t seemed angry though, not really. He’d been frustrated. Frustrated and frightened.

Grantaire lingered in Paris for three weeks, mindful of his cousin’s parting words, but it was only so long before his restlessness got the better of him. Louis had offered no explanation for his order, and only a vague threat as incentive to obey.

Besides, Louis would never hurt Grantaire. At the very least, Grantaire was confident of that.

A stack of performance invitations sat on the mantle in the sitting room. Grantaire pulled a letter of the pile at random and started packing.

Grantaire left for Troyes the next day.   

 

* * *

 

“So, let me get this straight,” said Bahorel. He looked annoyed. “The man we’ve been looking for has been living here, with three Friends, the whole time?” He let out a bark of laughter. “And we expect to pull off a revolution? I’m starting to doubt our chances.”

“Bahorel,” Enjolras snapped. “Not helping.”

Bahorel was wearing a cloak too, a gray one, which he slung over his right shoulder.

“Fine,” he conceded. “You’re right. Doesn’t matter how we found him, only that we found him. Just means we never have to come back here.”

But that would mean...oh. Seeing Courfeyrac again had scrambled Grantaire’s brain, but Bahorel was bringing everything back. They’d been looking for him. For Grantaire.

_He’s the final piece._

That meant the national guard were looking for him too. They wanted to take him back. They were going to lock him in his old cell, only this time they would never let him leave. Silent, dark, empty. Him and Claude, together for all eternity, joined at the soul. Only everything would be worse, because he’d had the last two months to remind him of what life could be.

He’d known this was going to happen. He’d known since Claude shut the door. His freedom was a trick. A cruelty far beyond any he’d previously experienced.

Maybe Enjolras was wrong. That was the only way out of this. Enjolras hadn’t known Grantaire was Grantaire. He didn’t know what he was talking about. Grantaire wasn’t the final piece. He didn’t know anything; he couldn’t do anything. Enjolras said it himself. Grantaire was just another broken person tossed aside by the monarchy.

Grantaire’s legs weren’t working properly. He could barely feel them. He sank to his knees, his hands coming to rest on the floor in front of him. The sight of his hands had him feeling light headed.

“Grantaire.” Courfeyrac crouched next to him, his hand on Grantaire’s back. “What’s wrong?”

Jehan crouched next to Grantaire too. He tried to shoo Courfeyrac away. “He’s overwhelmed. Give him some space.”

“You give him space.”

“I’m not the one he hasn’t seen in years. Bahorel, can you get Joly?”

Grantaire heard Bahorel call for Joly.

“Hey, R,” Jehan said, rubbing his back. “Try to breathe.”

Grantaire knocked Jehan’s arm away and tried to get up, but couldn’t manage. His legs bent under him, refusing to support him. Jehan’s arm reappeared at his side. Grantaire sighed, then took Jehan’s arm. Courfeyrac was quick to grab the other.

Joly arrived as Grantaire reached his feet.

“What the hell is happening?” Joly asked. He pressed his fingers into Grantaire’s risk. Grantaire could feel his blood beat against them. “Bossuet and Feuilly are saddling the horses.”

“You know how we’ve been looking for Damas?” Jehan asked.

Joly grunted.

“Well. You’re taking his pulse.”

Joly looked at Grantaire in disbelief, his mouth slightly open. “R?”

Grantaire looked back.

Joly dropped his arm. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because he didn’t know we were looking for him,” Jehan cut in. “I never gave him a name. The details were need-to-know.”

Grantaire couldn’t take it anymore. He pushed through the pack of people gathered around him to get to the desk, more falling than walking.

Enjolras caught him by the arm, steadied him. Enjolras’ face was chalky, and his hands were cold. He helped Grantaire into the chair.

Grantaire took the writing box out of Jehan’s bag and set it up as fast as he could. Pen in hand, Grantaire started forming large, shaky letters.

 _This is a mistake_.

“No,” said Enjolras. He was hovering over Grantaire’s shoulder, reading out Grantaire’s words as he wrote them. “It’s not. You’re the one.” He paused. “I see that now.”

_I can’t help you._

“You can if you try,” said Enjolras. “We’ll help you too. I swear it.”

_What am I supposed to do?_

Enjolras read the question to the room, then hesitated.

“For the love of the gods,” exclaimed Courfeyrac. “Just tell him, Enj.”

Enjolras rubbed his hand across his face. A few wisps of hair had escaped their tie.

“R,” he started. “ _Grantaire_. We can destroy Louis’ power base. But we need to offer someone to take his place. At least until we can get a republic set up. Someone with a claim to the throne.” Another pause, full of weight. “Grantaire. We need you to be King.”

A tremendous sense of anticipation congealed in the room. Obviously, Enjolras had just imparted life-altering information.

_You’re fucking insane._

“What did he write?” Courfeyrac asked.

Enjolras shook his head, jaw clenched.

This time, the silence in the room was more confused than anticipatory.

Jehan cleared his throat. “R, what do you think?”

Grantaire shrugged _._

Enjolras’ voice got a little higher. “Are you refusing?”

Again, Grantaire shrugged. He didn’t know what to think.

“Well,” Bahorel said. “Shit.”

Enjolras took a step back.

Grantaire watched them talk around him, like he wasn’t there.

“We put too much stock in his broken relationship with Louis,” Bahorel said.

Enjolras banged his fist against the desk. Everyone in the room jumped.

“Bahorel,” Enjolras said, voice strained. “Go help with the horses. Now.”

Everyone was silent for a long moment before Bahorel strode from the room, his cloak swirling behind him. Courfeyrac watched Bahorel leave before turning back to Grantaire. When he spoke, his voice was soft.

“Louis betrayed you. He betrayed France. He doesn’t deserve to rule. You can put an end to that. You can get justice.”

Grantaire looked at his hands.

“So he sent you gods know where...” Courfeyrac pushed past Jehan and knelt beside Grantaire. He held onto the back of the chair with one hand and Grantaire’s thigh with the other. “Where have you been, Grantaire?”

Grantaire licked his lips. Best get it over with.

 _The Bastille_.

The hand on Grantaire’s thigh gripped harder. Grantaire refused to look at Courfeyrac’s face.

“The Bastille,” Courfeyrac whispered. “This whole time?”

Grantaire nodded. No one spoke for several long seconds.

“ _Exiled_ ,” Courfeyrac spat. “Fucking Louis. He let us believe you were cooling your heels in some lonesome country manor.”

“The Bastille,” Enjolras said again. His voice was pained. When Grantaire looked at him, his eyes were wide. Regret, anger, guilt, and disbelief swirled in their depths. “You escaped?”

Grantaire shook his head. _They let me go. It’s close to here._

“I didn’t know,” Enjolras breathed. “I swear to you, R. I didn’t know.” He turned away.

“I hate to interrupt,” Joly interjected. “But we don’t have time for this now. The gates close at sundown.”

“Louis sent you to the Bastille, Grantaire,” Courfeyrac said. “Whatever affection you still have for him, he obviously doesn’t have for you. I know you’ve been through a lot. We won’t ask you for your answer now. Just think about it. Please. We have to get going.”

Grantaire sat back and nodded, his eyes on Enjolras.

Courfeyrac thanked him and moved to re-pack the writing box.

Enjolras was staring at the corner, his hands loose at his sides. His fingers spasmed once, and then he was striding out of the room. He didn’t look at Grantaire again.  


	4. i missed you too

When he was four years old, Grantaire snuck into his mother’s music room and stole some catgut strings from the cabinet. He strung the catgut across the drawers of his nursery’s armoire, moving the drawers in and out to vary the pitch. By the time his nurse found him, he’d managed to work out a slow, rough version of the song he’d heard his mother play on her violin the day before. He hadn’t been able to get it out of his head.

Grantaire thought his mother would be angry. She wasn’t.

“My special boy,” she said, stroking his hair. “My beautiful, special boy.”

The next day, with the help of her sister, she’d hired Grantaire the best music tutor in France.

Music wasn’t complicated. The rhythms, the chords, the way the notes fit together and bounced off each other and danced around what wasn’t there. Music was joy and life and connection.

Music was Grantaire’s mother tongue, and he was feeling the full force of it during tonight’s performance. Maybe it came from performing for a King. One who wasn’t his cousin.

“Bravo, man!” King George exclaimed, rising from his seat as the last note dissipated through St. George’s Chapel. The King brought his hands together, prompting the rest of the crowd to applaud with him.

“My pleasure, Sire,” Grantaire said. He was smiling so hard his face hurt. Tonight had really been something else. If he thought he’d get away with it, he’d play all night.

“Your reputation is well earned, Monsieur Damas,” the King rumbled. He walked onto the stage and clapped Grantaire on the shoulder, the rest of the audience hollering and stomping behind him. “You’d be perfect if you weren’t French.”

Grantaire laughed. He felt light.

“I can say this about you French,” the King continued in his gruff way. “Your people make decent wine. Come, drink with me. Tell me how I can lure you away from the French court for good.”

Grantaire laughed again. “I’d be delighted. King Louis might have something to say about it though.”

“Like father, like son.” 

The King swept toward the exit, his retinue buzzing around him, bees around an ostentatious flower. Grantaire let himself get swept along too, pleased at the prospect of good wine and good conversation.

Back in the chapel, in the middle of the crowd, someone was screaming Grantaire’s name with impressive force. That was hardly unusual. Grantaire had many fans.

He followed the King out of the chapel and into the night.

 

* * *

 

Grantaire woke gasping. Something was wrong with his lungs. Lungs were supposed to take in air. Expand and un-expand. But they weren’t working, and Grantaire couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t see.

Panic descended. Grantaire could feel cold ground beneath him and hands on his arm, on his shoulder. Claude had found him. Claude was here and he had his hands on Grantaire’s body.

“Grantaire! Calm down!”

Grantaire went limp. It was better to let things happen. He’d known that once. When had he started fighting again? Fighting was what people did when they didn’t know any better.

“R?”

“Is he awake?”

“I saw him open his eyes. He’s just...R, it’s Jehan. You’re safe.”

Grantaire drew a stuttering breath. None of the voices sounded like Claude. Maybe he’d finally lost his grip on reality.

Wouldn’t that be nice.

“Has this happened before?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Shut up. R, please. Look at me.”

Grantaire tried again to roll away from the hands. This time they let him. Once he was safely untouched, he opened his eyes.

Jehan and Enjolras were knelt on the ground, side by side, looking down on him. The flickering dark made it difficult to see their exact expressions, but Grantaire shuddered anyway. Their concern needled at him. It hurt.

When he saw Grantaire looking, Enjolras leaned forward, arm outstretched. Jehan clucked with disapproval, intercepting Enjolras’ arm before it could go anywhere. Grantaire blinked.

Enjolras spared an annoyed glance for Jehan, but turned back to Grantaire quickly. “Are you okay?”

Grantaire looked around him. The fire was still burning, though he’d rolled away from it in his sleep. He’d rolled out of the quilt too.

“Should we wake Joly?” Jehan asked. “Courfeyrac?”

Grantaire shook his head. He’d had a nightmare, that was all. The details were already fading. Claude’s face was the only part that lingered.

“You’re shivering,” said Enjolras.

Grantaire laid his head on the ground. Enjolras was right. He was shivering. Or shaking.

“I have your blanket.” Enjolras raised the quilt.

Grantaire flinched. Not on purpose, but his body had become used to functioning independently of his mind. Enjolras, of course, noticed. He stopped short, mouth tightening. He looked sideways at Jehan, turning his face away from the fire’s light in the process.

“Give us a minute,” Jehan said to Enjolras.

“I don’t–”

“I know,” Jehan interrupted. Then his voice gentled, and he squeezed Enjolras’ shoulder briefly. “I know.”

Jehan took the quilt from Enjolras’ hand. “Go away.”

“But–”

“Go.”

Reluctant, Enjolras finally rose to his feet.

“Fine,” Enjolras said. “I’m here if you need me, R. Anything at all.”

Grantaire laid his head back down and closed his eyes. A few seconds passed in silence, during which time he could feel Enjolras staring down at him. Then came the sound of footsteps crunching away from the fire.

Grantaire opened his eyes again.

Jehan huffed and draped the quilt over Grantaire’s legs.

“Unbearable,” he mumbled. “Can you sleep? Bahorel and Bossuet will be back with a cart by sunup.”

Grantaire maneuvered the quilt until it hung around his shoulders. Then he sat there, back to the fire, quilt clutched tightly to his chest. Weariness pulled at his eyelids, but he was afraid to let them close all the way. He could sleep in the cart tomorrow. No one had said it outright, but he knew the cart was for him. His strength was returning slowly, but he wasn’t capable of walking the seventy miles to Lyon.

Grantaire shook his head.

Jehan waved his hand. “Want some company then? I’ll sit next to you while you stare at the fire. However long you need.”

Grantaire smiled gratefully.

 

* * *

 

He woke with a lurch as someone climbed into the cart. Sleep hadn’t come the night before, which had left him nauseated for the start of the journey to Lyon. He’d finally laid himself down to rest about mid-morning.

It couldn’t have been more than a few hours since then. A little past noon. The white sun blazed overhead, forcing him to squint.

“Sorry to wake you,” Courfeyrac said. He settled himself with his back to the cart’s wooden side. “I wanted to spend some time with you, though. Before everything gets crazy. But we can find some other time, if you’re not up to it.”

Twisting his neck to look behind them, Grantaire saw Jehan leading Courfeyrac’s sturdy bay stallion. Grantaire didn’t know the horse’s name. Courfeyrac used to ride a white gelding called Dart. What happened to Dart?

Grantaire turned to Courfeyrac to find Courfeyrac looking back at him. His eyes burned, but he also knew this conversation had to happen. They both needed it to happen. More than once, probably. Blurry as he felt, he nodded his head a bit to let Courfeyrac know it was okay to continue.

“I don’t…” Courfeyrac started. A strained laugh bubble out of him, the kind Courfeyrac did when he was nervous. Grantaire remembered it. “I used to wonder what we’d say to each other, if we ever met again. Now that I’m here, all I can think to do is ask if you’re alright. Ridiculous.”

Grantaire shrugged. He didn’t know what he’d say either, if he could talk. Courfeyrac had the hard job here.

“It’s just, I’ve spent so long thinking about you,” Courfeyrac said “I dreamed about you. That I could hear your voice. Your laugh, sometimes.” Then he grimaced, his gaze moving to the countryside.

They fell into silence. The voices of the others mixed with the clattering of the cart of the horses’ steps to make a pleasant backdrop for the non-conversation he and Courfeyrac were having. In his previous life, Grantaire would have taken Courfeyrac’s hand, reassured him. In this life, he took the opportunity to study a man he’d thought he’d never see again. The nose was the same. The hair was shorter, but the curls were still there. The main difference was the eyes. There was a quality to them now that Grantaire didn’t remember being there before. Sadness, deep and still and just under the skin.

Finally, Courfeyrac spoke again, softly. “I’m married.”

Grantaire didn’t know why that surprised him, but it did. The world had moved on in his absence. That was proper. And for all his flirting and flightiness back in the day, Courfeyrac was too romantic, too loyal, to go this long without falling in love. This was good then. All for the best.

Grantaire leaned his head to one side, prompting Courfeyrac to continue.

“You’ll like her,” Courfeyrac said. “She’s fearless, Grantaire. Got a tongue sharp as a blade. She’s in the Friends. She didn’t begrudge one second of the time I spent looking for you. Not one second.” He glanced at Grantaire, his eyes shining. “Her name’s Jeanne Louise. She’s gonna love you. I know it.”

Knowing Courfeyrac wanted to see him smile, Grantaire let the corners of his lips twitch up. Safely in his own mind, he wondered how much time passed between his arrest and the appearance of Jean Louise in Courfeyrac’s life. Not long, hopefully.

If Courfeyrac had been married for years already, then children were a distinct possibility. Grantaire made a cradle with his arms and rocked them back and forth a couple times, asking.

“Ah, yeah,” Courfeyrac said, a pleased redness appearing on his cheeks. “We’ve got three little ones. All boys, if you’ll believe it. The youngest was born not two months gone.”

A family. Courfeyrac had always wanted one of those. Grantaire had too. Louis had helped in that regard, once upon a time. Music had too.

Grantaire breathed carefully and looked backwards again. Enjolras was back there now, riding about thirty paces behind the cart, Bahorel at his side. They were speaking quietly, though they gesticulated with force.

Like he could sense that he was being watched, Enjolras paused mid-sentence. His eyes jerked forwards to meet Grantaire’s. The sun glinted off his hair as if it were spun gold, as if Enjolras were from another world. Looking at him hurt.

Grantaire turned his attention back Courfeyrac. That hurt too, but in a nicer way.

“Congratulations, Grantaire,” Courfeyrac said, half-laughing. “You’re an uncle. And not just through me.” He shook his head, grinning. “Marius has a kid too. Can you believe that? The baby has a baby.”

That got Grantaire’s heart pumping. Something like excitement jolted through him. His hands attempted to grasp his breeches, an impulse left over from his past life.

_Eponine_ , he mouthed, lifting his eyebrows to turn it into a question.

But his excitement was not returned to him. Courfeyrac dimmed, just a bit.

“Not with Eponine, no,” Courfeyrac said. “They didn’t last long after you disappeared. Eponine went into the family business after that. It’s her place in Lyon that we’re headed to. She lets Friends stay in her properties for free. Sneaks us past her parents.”

Courfeyrac shifted on the hard bed of the cart, his knee knocking against Grantaire’s. Grantaire noticed, but controlled himself well enough that he didn’t move away. He needed to get used to that kind of thing again.

“She might be there, actually,” Courfeyrac continued. “She sent a letter saying she was going to come down from Paris to be closer to the search. None of us could believe it when we finally heard news of you, Grantaire.”

He shifted again, this time letting his knee rest against Grantaire’s.

“You have to understand. Nothing for years. We searched every noble holding in Western Europe, I swear. And then, out of nowhere, this letter falls into our hands. A royal letter with your name it in, written by Louis’ personal secretary, sent to Grenoble of all places. It was our first clue in ages.” Courfeyrac laid his hand on Grantaire’s wrist, the action heavy with emotion. Grantaire twitched. “We had no idea you were in the Bastille. Louis told Enjolras he’d stashed you away for safe-keeping. We never thought he’d go this far. Not with you.”

“Anyway,” Courfeyrac said, clearing his throat and pulling his hand back. “Eponine will lose her mind when she sees you. She’s missed you. I missed you.”

Grantaire was not the same person he’d been before his time in the Bastille. That much was obvious to anyone with eyes. While Courfeyrac was excited now, and Eponine would be too, how long would it take before he disappointed them? What if he never managed to speak again? To use his hands, earn a living? His old friends would be forced to care for him in perpetuity.

The thought could not be borne. Grantaire concentrated on relaxing, just enough to let the thought slip by him. Maybe he would speak again. He’d try harder. But right now, Courfeyrac was watching him, waiting.

So, with the meager amount of strength he’d managed to cultivate in the two months he’d been out of the Bastille, Grantaire eased his body into Courfeyrac’s. He hoped the gesture said what his tongue could not: _I missed you too_.

Strong arms came around Grantaire’s shoulders. They held on tight.

“You survived,” Courfeyrac whispered into his hair. “You extraordinary thing.”

Grantaire turned inwards, hiding his face from the sun. Courfeyrac’s burgundy riding jacket was soft. Expensive. Strange and familiar all at once.

“They’ll never take you from us again,” Courfeyrac said, “I swear it”


	5. apollo

Grenoble had been overwhelming. Lyon was enough to drown a person.

The city crouched between two rivers, the Saone to the west and the Rhone to the east. Handfuls of sturdy stone bridges allowed traffic into the city, their arches high enough to accommodate the small boats that cruised from shore to shore. Squat, light-colored buildings lined the river’s edge. With their red-tiled roofs, they resembled a mouthful of bloody teeth.

Grantaire lay in the bed of the cart as they crossed the Rhone and entered the city proper. Though the late afternoon was, once again, hot, Grantaire had his quilt pulled up to his eyes. No need to expose himself more than necessary.

Jehan, who was riding next to the cart, gave him a lopsided grin.

“Almost there,” Jehan said. He nodded north. “The tavern is at the foot of Croix-Rousse. That’s where the silk weavers have their shops. Eponine gets a lot of them coming down to spend their what’s left of their salaries.”

“Yeah.” Bossuet pulled up to the other side of the cart. “Feuilly was saying the merchants are cutting the weavers’ wages again. Which isn’t good for the weavers, but it does make our job easier.”

Jehan glanced down at Grantaire. “Well, we can talk about that later. You okay down there, R?”

Grantaire nodded. It was hard to hear what Jehan and Bossuet were saying over the churning of the city. Just the sound of so many wheels, hooves, and feet on the stone street was deafening.

“Almost there,” Jehan repeated. “Did Joly go ahead?”

“Yeah,” answered Bossuet. “He wanted to get R’s room ready. Feuilly went with him.”

Grantaire felt pitiful and grateful at once. The journey, short as it was, and sapped him of his strength. Exhaustion was a heavy thing, weighing him down as it settled into the empty places inside him.

“Enjolras and Bahorel are riding straight to L’Echo,” Bahorel continued. “I’m going to join them, I think. The unionists must be getting rowdy. But Courfeyrac will stay with you.”

Jehan and Bossuet exchanged a few more words before Bossuet took his leave.

Somewhere up ahead, a metal pot fell to the ground with a resounding clang. The sound reverberated off the tall buildings on either side of the street, amplifying the vibration. He could hear Courfeyrac too, calming the cart horses.

Sound. Vibration.

“We will be fine,” Jehan said. His hair was coming out of its binding. It fell around his face, framing tired eyes. Grantaire wasn’t the only one who needed rest. “Most of the guardsmen here are recruited from silk weaver families. The Friends have many allies among them.”

Grantaire nodded again. He spent the remainder of the journey gazing up at the windows of buildings they passed. People of all ages sat on the sills or ducked their heads into the street. Some were sewing or carving. A few were airing sheets. From their dress, most seemed to be servants, though the occasional silk of a gentlewoman’s gown flashed into view. The neighborhood was a relatively wealthy. It was the kind of place Grantaire might have visited, once upon a time. He wondered if he’d been to this street before.

The closer they traveled to Croix-Rousse, though, the clearer it was that the wealth of the city was not what it used to be. Clothes became tattered, faces thinner. Darkness ringed the eyes of passersby, their shoulders hunched under invisible weight. Even pressed into the bottom of the cart as he was, Grantaire could feel a restless energy thrumming beneath the daily goings-on of the city. Anger thickened the air. It tasted like dust.

The cart eventually turned off the large thoroughfare and entered the maze of narrow stone streets that made up the center of the city. They turned left, then right, then left again before coming to stop where two lanes met. Grantaire’s eyes drifted to the tall building on the right. The words _live working, die fighting_ were scrawled in white paint just above head height.

Grantaire turned his eyes from the graffiti and eased himself up.

“We’re here,” Jehan said, nodding at a wide wooden door under a stone arch. Matching arched windows flanked the door on either side, the shutters flung open to let in what little breeze there was to catch. A wood sign hung above the door. “The Jondrette.”

Jehan dismounted and handed his reins to Courfeyrac.

“I’ll get the horses settled,” Courfeyrac said. He threw an easy smile Grantaire’s way. “Get some rest. I’ll see you for supper, if you’re up to it.”

Grantaire nodded and let Jehan help him down from the cart. Hands safely tucked into his sleeves, he followed Jehan inside.

A long table stretched down the middle of the tavern’s long common room. An empty fireplace with an open face yawned at the other end of the room with a closed door on either side. One to the kitchen, maybe, and one up to the second floor. A counter with casks of wine and barrels of ale stacked behind it took up a fair amount of the left side of the room. A slim girl in a kerchief leaned against the counter drying glassware.

A few other people sat at the square tables scattered through the rest of the room. They poked at bowls of stew or stared into tankards. No one paid him any mind, except Joly.

“Welcome!” Joly said with a smile, hurrying up to them. He took Grantaire’s wrist in his hand, two delicate fingers pressed to Grantaire’s pulse.

Grantaire didn’t protest.

Joly hummed. “Seems as well as can be expected.” He clapped Jehan on the shoulder before taking Grantaire’s arm in his own. “We still need to keep a close eye on that heart of yours. Have you met Eponine’s sister? This is Azelma.”

Eponine’s sister? The only sister of Eponine’s Grantaire met had been a tiny whirlwind with chubby cheeks and the lightest hands he’d ever seen on a six-year-old. Now she was, what? Fourteen? Fifteen?

“Nice to see you again,” Azelma said with a crooked smile, flicking her rag in his direction. “Seems we’re both changed since the last time. I hear you go by R. Like a pirate.”

Grantaire blew out his breath and turned to Joly.

“Eponine will be here soon,” Joly said. “In the meantime, I a bed waiting for you. Oh, and some broth. You’re still recovering.”

Grantaire slept the rest of the afternoon. It was dark when he got up. His stomach growled as soon as his feet touched the ground.

No one was in the room with him, so Grantaire put his boots back on, snuffed the candle, and slipped into the hall. The room was on the second floor. Good thing he’d practiced. He went down the steep stairs with care and cracked open the door to the common room.

There were many more people than there had been during the day. The tables were full, mostly with men in work caps, who were gambling, drinking, and causing a general ruckus. Candles hung overhead and stood on every table, bathing the scene in a warm light. It was exactly the kind of place the old Grantaire would have loved. Fortunately, he spotted Jehan, Joly, and Courfeyrac at a table near the kitchen entrance.

“Hey,” Courfeyrac greeted him as he sat. “You’re looking better. Jehan, get the man a drink and some food.”

Jehan gave Courfeyrac the side-eye, but got up regardless. He brushed his hand across Grantaire’s shoulders as he crossed toward the bar, a silent hello.

“You are looking better,” Joly agreed.

Grantaire smiled faintly. He supposed he did feel a bit better.

Courfeyrac stared at him for a long moment before reaching into bag hanging on the back of his chair.

“I got you something,” he said, holding out a small bundle tied with red ribbon. “I hope you don’t mind. I just figured all gentlemen need a good pair of gloves. And it might help you blend in. Or feel comfortable. Only if you like, of course.”

It was a pair of gloves. They were beige and so, so soft. Grantaire held the gloves to his cheek. Kidskin. Expensive as hell. Courfeyrac never had let money stand between him and comfort.

Grantaire raised an eyebrow at Courfeyrac and shook his head in disbelief. That sent Joly laughing like mad.

“I told you they were too much,” Joly said. “People will think he stole them.”

Courfeyrac’s cheeks flushed pink, but he raised his chin anyway. “Grantaire deserves the best.”

That’s when Jehan returned. He set a mug of beer in front of Grantaire with a flourish.

“That’s for you,” Jehan said. Then he smacked Courfeyrac on shoulder. “And that’s for you. It’s ‘R’ in public. Enjolras’ orders until we get everything figured out.”

That sent Grantaire spinning back to the day before. Was it just the day before when Enjolras told him some ridiculous story about a kings and justice? It couldn’t be. That was a dream. Or a stray thought, floating away into the mist.

Grantaire put on the gloves with only a little difficulty. Courfeyrac had the foresight to buy a larger pair than Grantaire would have needed before. He also had the decency to buy a pair without the button at the wrist.

Considering his gloved hands, Grantaire wondered if they now might be mistaken for whole, healthy hands. From a distance, maybe. If you squinted.

Then Grantaire picked up his beer, carefully, and drank half of it in one go.

“That’s the spirit!” Courfeyrac whooped, clapping Grantaire on the shoulder. Grantaire jerked forward, beer dribbling down his chin. “See Joly, he does like the gloves.”

A war between a grimace and a smile was playing out on Joly’s face. “Well,” he said. “It would be good for you to relax, R. Just take it easy.”

Grantaire responded by drinking the rest of the beer. With Courfeyrac there, he could almost pretend nothing was wrong. If he squinted.

He set his mug down with a thud, then made a motion with his hand like he was rolling dice.

Courfeyrac was already reaching into his bag, crooked smile luminous as the candles in their holders. “Way ahead of you, buddy.”

Grantaire wasn’t sure how long they played for. Long enough for Joly to force him to eat some broth. Long enough for him to drink two more beers. Long enough for him to feel a pleasant buzzing in his head and his legs and his stomach. Long enough for him to smile and almost mean it.

Standing, when he finally tried, became a stumble into the table.

“Woah there,” Courfeyrac said, taking hold of his arm.

“That’s it,” Joly said, also standing. “We’re taking you upstairs, R.”

Feeling muddy, Grantaire could only nod. Or, he tried to nod. He felt like there was a metal weight hanging from his chin. He let himself be led back to his bed, let his keepers undress him and tuck him in. He let himself curl up, his knees pulled in towards his chest.

He drifted asleep to the sound of whispers.

“He looked like he was having a good time down there.” That was Courfeyrac. “Does that mean he’s getting better?”

There was a moment of silence, and then another.

“I don’t know,” Joly whispered. “I don’t know.”

 

* * *

 

The next few days passed slowly. Heat baked the stones, baked the people. In spite of the relief Grantaire knew waited by the river, he spent his time haunting The Jondrette. Azelma worked most days, and Courfeyrac and Joly both tended to stick close. Between the three of them and the rest of the Friends popping in and out, Grantaire wasn’t too lonely. And he felt safer. Whether he was safer, he could only guess.

What he did know was that no one had brought up Louis or the small matter of impending revolution since Grenoble. When Grantaire asked about it, Jehan just shook his head, lips pressed together.

“Slow and steady, R,” he said. “We’ll get back to that when you’re ready.”

They were shielding him. Maybe they were afraid he’d say no. Again. Or maybe they were afraid he’d never say anything and ruin their plans with silence. Or maybe they didn’t want to push so hard that he went over the edge into full insanity.

He was confident that’s why he hadn’t seen Enjolras. He’d seen everyone else. Even Bahorel, who had earned Grantaire’s respect when he’d cheated at dice, picked the pocket of a rich idiot slumming it with the silk weavers, and romanced the hell out of half the common room in the same night. But Enjolras. Enjolras was nowhere.

Until he wasn’t. Grantaire came down for his midday bread and beer and there Enjolras was, sitting alone, back against the wall. His clothes were finer than anything Grantaire had seen him in yet: black ankle boots, fitted brown frock coat that looked like it had left the tailor’s shop ten minutes ago, gloves as nice as Grantaire’s. He held a top hat in his hands, ready to hide those lovely curls. Another top hat was on the table, a paper-wrapped package underneath it.

Enjolras sat up when he saw Grantaire. He didn’t smile, but he did motion Grantaire over with a small wave.

Grantaire thought about going back upstairs, but decided against it. He went to Enjolras, head cocked to the side.

“Hello, R,” Enjolras greeted him, standing. “Are you well?”

Grantaire raised one brow and touched the frock coat with a gloved finger.

Tiny lines appeared on Enjolras’ forehead, but he didn’t move back. “I know. But it’s necessary if we want to fit in.”

Grantaire let his other brow join the first.

“I was wondering,” said Enjolras, “if you’d like to visit the Musée des Beaux Arts this afternoon. Lunch first, of course.”

Of all the things Grantaire had expected Enjolras to say, that had not been one of them. He’d been to the Musée before. It was gorgeous. It was full of people.

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it was safe,” Enjolras said. “You’ve been cooped up indoors far too long. And I promise not to talk about anything that might upset you.” He picked up the hat on the table and shoved it into Grantaire’s hands. “We need to get to know each other. And just…be out there.”

The hat in his hands was not unlike what he would have worn before the Bastille. Enjolras wanted to dress him up and take him out. Make him look like he did before, as far as that was possible.

“Not to rush you,” Enjolras prodded, “but we need to get going. Put these on too.” He added the package to Grantaire’s holdings. “You look like a laborer.”

Grantaire clutched the package to his chest and stared at Enjolras. Enjolras had long lashes. They brushed the top of his cheeks when he blinked.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with being a laborer.” Enjolras went on. “It’s a noble profession. But we have to play the game. For now.”

Still staring, Grantaire jerked his chin up and down. He took a few steps backwards before turning and going back up the stairs.

The clothes in the package were like Enjolras’ but looser and worn. Grantaire struggled to get them on and tie the necessary ties. When they were on, he carefully avoided his reflection in the glass. He didn’t need to see an old skeleton in its burial clothes. An afternoon with Enjolras would be hard enough, he was sure. Gathering his courage, Grantaire descended once again.

Though Grantaire had feared awkward silence, he needn’t have bothered. Enjolras kept up both ends of the conversation with ease. He spoke through lunch and all the way to the hackney point. And, to Grantaire’s surprise, he wasn’t bad to listen to when the subject was something other than Grantaire. Paris featured prominently. Grantaire could feel how much Enjolras loved the city after hearing him describe the crooked, chaotic streets. Enjolras also liked to talk about the future. Grantaire was less fond of the future than of Paris, but there was something about the way Enjolras talked about it. Justice and equality launched themselves from his tongue with seductive certainty.

“Doesn’t it feel like the future is narrowing? We need to crack the future open again. Like an egg. That’s why we fight so hard for universal education. Can you imagine it? Education for everyone, boys and girls, the poor as well as the rich. That’s the secret of freedom, R. Education. Tyrants rely on the peoples’ ignorance to conceal their tyranny. It doesn’t have to be that way.”

His voice settled Grantaire enough to enjoy the open air. Though he couldn’t stop himself from checking every face they passed – was that Claude leaning against the street lamp, or someone with the same broad shoulders? – Enjolras’ voice was something else to focus on. It rose and fell and wove into lovely bursts and patterns. It was its own music.

By the time they arrived at the Musée, Grantaire was surprised to find himself having a pleasant time.

“We only have an hour,” Enjolras said. He helped Grantaire down from the carriage, his hand grasping Grantaire’s wrist.

Inside, Enjolras seemed content to follow Grantaire’s lead. The only time Enjolras got impatient was near the end of the hour. Grantaire was enjoying the realism of the pencil drawings when Enjolras took him by the sleeve and pulled him toward a different exhibit.

“I want to see the Greek statues,” Enjolras said in response to Grantaire’s questioning look. “Greece was the birthplace of democracy. I’m surprised our dear King allows such a reminder to remain in France, but I’ll take advantage of it all the same.”

They ended up in a horseshoe shaped room with white columns stretching to the ceiling. Statues of varying sizes rested on plinths all around the room. They were all white except for one black statue in the exact center.

Grantaire approached one of the larger statues. A naked youth stood proudly, arm straining forward. A cape curled over his shoulders and down his arm, the details so well done that the fabric seemed to move. The outstretched hand clutched a scroll, the other a lyre.

Apollo. God of music, god of poetry. The Bright One. An oracle of destruction who shot arrows of plague. To go against him was to be cursed. To be his lover was to burn. Grantaire had always carried a torch for him, his very own patron.

“I saw you perform once.”

Grantaire jumped and spun. Enjolras was just behind him, his eyes directed at the lyre.

“At a party. You were surrounded by people.”

Grantaire shrugged.

Enjolras shifted, his lips turned down. “You were good.”

Grantaire used to be many things.

“Don’t you think about it?” Enjolras asked. “Playing again?” He paused. “Speaking?”

Eyes suddenly burning, Grantaire turned back to Apollo. The stone was suddenly preferable to the flesh. But Enjolras wouldn’t let him hide. Bright ones left nothing in shadow. Grantaire tensed when Enjolras put a hand on each of his shoulders and leaned in.

“I wish I could have spared you your torment, Grantaire” Enjolras said. Grantaire could feel his breath on the back of his neck. “But what’s done is done, and you’ve endured it with a strength I admire very much.”

And then Enjolras was gone. Grantaire sagged forward, head bowed.

“It’s time to go,” Enjolras said, voice echoing in the enclosed space. The acoustics were magnificent. “This was good. We should spend more time together.”

Grantaire considered the fine face of Apollo and sent up a prayer.


	6. dear cousin

Shadows held Grantaire close as he pressed his back to the corner of the Jondrette’s common room. Wine crept down the side of the glass he held, a better vintage than a tavern like this should rightly have. It had great legs. His eyes slipped past the glass to the front door for the hundredth time. He took a moment to adjust himself, angling himself back to the raised platform across from the bar.

A young street singer stood upon the platform, his hands curled around a flute. There were holes in his trousers, and there was treason on his tongue: _In short, his existence consists wholly of toil, for competition produces rivals without term_. Grantaire had sung similar political ballads in his time, though never at a seditious gathering. The Friends organized music nights like these in taverns all over Lyon and Paris.

At least the man’s voice wasn’t half bad. He strained at the limits of his range, but that only added to the rough atmosphere.

“The man who makes the people’s songs is a true popular preacher.”

Enjolras dropped that little gem as took the seat to Grantaire’s left. Grantaire took a drink.

“The satirical form suits ballads best,” Enjolras said, watching the singer. “It’s no coincidence that every time people begin to sing louder, the monarchy declares war on song. And musicians.” He paused, head tilting toward Grantaire. “You know.”

As if Grantaire had been some kind of revolutionary. He watched the door, listening to Enjolras with half an ear.

When the street singer reached the chorus, the tavern’s patrons joined in. It was a full house, Saturday being pay day for the tradesmen and their apprentices. Their voices joined together in a riotous explosion of feeling.

Enjolras, to Grantaire’s surprise, interrupted himself to sing along. His voice was untrained, but smooth as a river rock, the tone honey-warm. He smiled around the room, as if every person there were a friend, or a potential Friend. When he missed a note, he smiled wider.

The little hairs on Grantaire’s arms stood up. A vision of hands re-stringing a violin came to mind. Fine fingers wound the string onto its peg over and over, tighter and tighter. The string was growing more taught, more tense, until suddenly–

“Eponine is here.”

Grantaire snatched his hands under the table. The chorus was over. Enjolras was looking at him, curious expression on his face.

“She just came in,” Enjolras said. He nodded toward the door. “Go ahead. I don’t mind.”

Grantaire snapped back to reality. He had been waiting for Eponine to arrive all day. And now she was here, her back turned to the room as she hugged Azelma. She pulled back after a moment, said something. Azelma said something back and pointed toward Grantaire’s shadow.

Eponine met Grantaire’s eyes. She didn’t look away as she made her way toward him, elbowing her way through the noisy crowd. Her narrow skirts caught on a few chairs and pulled against her legs. Grantaire put down his wine, stood, and waited for her to reach him.

When she did, she didn’t reach out. She studied him for a moment, her hand coming up to cover her mouth. Grantaire studied her too. Like Courfeyrac, the little lines around her eyes and mouth had multiplied. Sadness, weariness, care; those had multiplied as well. But the fierce loyalty was still there.

“Are you really him?" Eponine finally asked.

Grantaire answered by wrapping her in his arms. He kept his eyes wide open as he held her. What would happen if he closed them?

“Okay,” said Courfeyrac, who had come in with Eponine. “I’ll try not be jealous that Ep got a hug and I didn’t.”

“No,” Eponine said. Her voice only wavered a little. “I heard he fainted when he saw you. That’s how ugly you’ve gotten. Right, R?”

Once upon a time, Grantaire had greatly enjoyed watching hot air balloons take flight in the fields outside Paris. Elaborate silk spheres of every color and stripe, suspended above the world by nothing more than fire and air. Though Louis’ father had forbidden him from taking a turn in a gondola, Grantaire had been under no such strictures. One of the balloonists had taken Grantaire up into the sky, so high that the people below were ants. An incredible lightness of being had come upon him then, swift enough that he imagined he might fly even without the balloon. He’d composed more music in the next two days than the month previous.

These days, Grantaire usually felt frail and thick at the same time, and always clumsy. But with Eponine and Courfeyrac in front of him, bantering like siblings, he felt some of that lightness come back.

Startled by the feeling, Grantaire laughed.

It was rough at first, more a cough than anything. Then the cobwebs cleared, and Grantaire was laughing. The sound was more surprising than anything. He’d forgotten what he sounded like.

“You’re laughing,” Courfeyrac said, voice getting louder. “Yes!” He joined the hug, his long arms coming around Eponine and Grantaire both. “I’ve never heard anything so lovely, R. The best thing I’ve ever heard.” He drew back, grinning like a loon. “But, really? That joke was terrible.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Courf,” Eponine said, laughing herself now. “Your face is the funniest joke I know.”

Grantaire snorted. Eponine wiped a tear from his cheek.

“I’m so glad to have you back,” she said. “It’s been so boring without you.”

“You should take this upstairs,” Enjolras broke in. He stood up too. “Somewhere a little more private.”

“Of course,” Courfeyrac agreed. “I have some cheese and bread in my room, Ep, if you’re hungry. Unless Feuilly got into them. The man’s a bottomless well.”

“Sure. You coming, R?”

Grantaire nodded and reached for his wine, but Enjolras was holding the glass.

“He’ll join you in a second,” Enjolras said.

“Okay,” Eponine said slowly. Her eyes narrowed. “I’ll see you in a second, then. And if I don’t, I know who to kill.” She only looked back once before disappearing up the stairs with Courfeyrac.

Enjolras handed Grantaire his glass. Grantaire stared at him.

“Your laugh,” Enjolras said. He ran his hand through his hair, the little line between his eyes reappearing. “It’s good. Your laugh is good. You should laugh more.”

Grantaire nodded once and went upstairs to meet his friends.

 

* * *

 

Eponine collapsed onto the silk cushion beside Grantaire’s, her hair in disarray. She tried to brush the stray hairs from her forehead, but they kept sticking.

“I would say His Majesty should open a museum at Versailles every spring,” she said, fanning herself, “if it weren’t such a colossal waste of time, money, energy, space, what have you.”

Grantaire handed her his chilled wine. “And he would run out of wings before too long. That’s nearly an admission of failure. The museum openings would have to rotate. A different palace each year.”

In bit of political maneuvering Grantaire chose to ignore, King Charles had decided to open a Museum of History dedicated to all the glories of France. And France had many glories, clearly, as King Charles had devoted an entire wing of the Palace at Versailles to the spectacle. Portraits of French heroes, also known as those men stupid enough to get themselves involved in great bloody battles, hung one on top of the other, blanketing the available wall space in every room and corridor. Dead eyes watched Grantaire from every direction. They made Grantaire immensely grateful he need not concern himself with honor or heroics of any sort.

Grantaire was there because he had been invited to sing at the party following the opening. The party had been a dull, formal affair. The party after the party, though; now that was shaping up to be a party to remember. To pace oneself in such a situation was key, which was why Grantaire had eventually tucked himself into one of the smaller salons. The dancers in the salon laughed their way into great whirls, just as in the greater halls, but a good handful of noble guests also caught their breath on the cushions lining the walls. Broad silk streamers hung from the ceiling, creating shadowy corners for more intimate activities. Plus, his friends were in here.

Eponine prodded Grantaire with her elbow. “Look at them.”

Wrists clasped in each other’s hands, Marius and Courfeyrac were spinning in a tight circle, faster and faster. Their heads were thrown back, their faces open. Laughter spilled from their circle, thrown by the force of their movement.

“What are we thinking, hanging out with them?” Eponine said, passing the wine back.

“That they’re wonderful,” Grantaire said, a smile coming to his lips.

Marius and Courfeyrac finally lost their balance, each one tumbling into the dancers behind them. Half the room fell to the floor in a great mess of arms, legs, and upraised skirts.

Grantaire laughed. Then he saw Louis enter the salon. He beckoned Louis over with one hand, his other patting the cushion on his other side.

Louis dropped to the floor with a huff, loosening the top of his shirt.

“What’s going on here?" Louis asked, eyes wide as he surveyed the mess.

“Well, we invited a few people over for prayer and quiet reflection,” Grantaire said, clapping Louis on the thigh, “but it got a little out of hand.”

“Yes, of course,” Louis said. His eyes caught on a rosy-cheeked woman half-way through unlacing her bodice. “Good Frenchmen and women are all about piety.”

“Are you still looking?” asked Eponine. She leaned over Grantaire a bit to poke the dark red skin on Louis’ chest. “Because it looks like you already found.”

Louis batted her hand away, faux-shock on his face. “If you’re asking if I met a delightful young man earlier this evening, then the answer is yes. Does that mean I can’t meet a delightful young woman later this evening? You tell me.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes.

“I saw that, dear cousin,” Louis said. He threw his arm around Grantaire’s shoulders, and pulled Grantaire closer. Their heads touched. “You should have seen this boy, though. A stunner. And a real go-getter.”

“Sounds like my type,” Grantaire said.

“I saw him first. He’s mine and you shan’t have him.”

Marius and Courfeyrac had finally gathered themselves enough to join them on the cushions. Marius laid between Eponine’s legs, his head resting on her stomach. Courfeyrac laid on Grantaire and Louis’ feet, stretched on his stomach.

“So,” Courfeyrac greeted them, still a bit breathless. “What are we talking about?”

“We are talking about me,” said Louis. He curled his fingers into Grantaire’s hair. “Beating my dear cousin. Finally.”

 

* * *

 

Grantaire joined Eponine and Courfeyrac upstairs. They all sat on Courfeyrac’s bed, their backs to the wall and their feet dangling over the edge. Like the room next door, which Grantaire shared with Jehan, this room just had the two beds, a table set between them with a light, and a washbasin in the corner near the door. The small window was propped open with a dowel to let in the night air.

When Eponine finished her apple, she laid her head on Grantaire’s shoulder and kept it there while she and Courfeyrac filled the space with some of the things Grantaire had missed over the last seven years.

It was pleasant.

“Gavroche is eating all my earnings,” Eponine was saying. She had one hand wrapped around Grantaire’s wrist. Her longest two fingers pressed into his skin. “Literally. He eats so much.”

“A little terror grown into a hurricane of a young man,” Courfeyrac added. “He’s taller than me, you know. And he has half the lasses in Paris chasing him. My Jeanne Louise usually keeps an eye on him while Ep is out of town, and bless her for keeping him out of too much trouble.”

Gavroche had been even younger than Azelma when Grantaire’s life had ended. Vague memories of a child with huge dark eyes, like Eponine’s, played to his mind’s eye. The child had practically lived on the streets, which Eponine had hated but her parents had encouraged. Feral children were cheaper to raise. A bit of the feral remained, it seemed.

After a while they got to a lull in the conversation. Grantaire closed his eyes, content for once. Though it hurt to hear what happened in the world while he was away, he still enjoyed hearing about his friend’s lives. Ghosts must enjoy haunting the living. It scratched an itch.

Like always, Eponine was the one to bring reality back to their trio.

“Can I just say this,” she says, lifting her head. “Courfeyrac must have told you that we looked for you. And we did, Grantaire. We looked everywhere.”

Grantaire nodded, his eyes on his gloves.

“I was furious with Louis when he had you arrested,” she said, voice sharp enough to catch the light. “When he got back to Paris, I tried to get into the Palace to talk some sense into him. Or kill him, whatever.”

Leave it to Eponine to try to knock sense into the King of France.

“But I’d been banned from court. Louis refused to see any of us after that, except Marius. When I heard that bastard had you sent to the Bastille, well…” Eponine stroked the back of Grantaire’s hand. “You would be a better king than him, Grantaire. You would never treat anyone, let alone your own blood, like Louis treated you.”

Grantaire closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the wall. So Eponine had bought into the Friends’ nonsense.

“Please look at me,” Eponine said. Grantaire did as she bid because he liked looking at her.

“She’s right, you know,” Courfeyrac joined in from the other side. “I know you don’t want to be king. I know you never have. But that’s what makes you the right choice. You’ll give the power back to the people, but you have a strong enough claim to the throne that the nobles will follow you. You’re what France needs now.”

Courfeyrac was right about one thing. Grantaire had never wanted to be king. In his youth, he’d wondered if something was wrong with him. Men were supposed to want to be in charge. All he’d wanted was a violin, a friend, a sunny day. But as he’d grown older, the worry was replaced with relief. His relationship with Louis could blossom, he’d thought, untainted by envy. The petty ambition that plagued other royal relationships couldn’t touch him. Him or Louis.

And yet. He should have been worried. Seven years with only Claude’s tender mercies for companionship had taught him that.

Eponine touched the side of his face gently, her thumb tracing over his sunken cheek. “We need you too,” she said. “There’s no shaking us now.”

“And we’re on your side, Grantaire,” Courfeyrac said. “No matter what ends up happening.”

Grantaire smiled at Courfeyrac, grateful for his friends. Even if he couldn’t help the Friends, he wouldn’t be alone. Maybe he had options.

They chatted for a while longer, pausing when Courfeyrac went downstairs to fetch more wine. Their reunion only ended when Grantaire had slid so far down the wall that he was almost flat on his back.

Courfeyrac helped Grantaire to his feet. “Okay, if I don’t send you to bed now, Joly will have my head.”

Grantaire nodded, his eyes drooping.

“I’ll take him to his room,” Eponine said. Her arm came around his waist.

They had their final goodnights with Courf, and Eponine supported Grantaire back to his room. Jehan was still out on whatever Friends business usually kept him out. Grantaire sat on his bed, careful to make sure he could reach the table, while Eponine lit the candles.

Eponine turned to him with a crooked smile. “Do you need anything?”

Grantaire shook his head. There were things he’d been waiting to ask her. He could have asked Courfeyrac, but he didn’t know if Courfeyrac would give him a straight answer. Courf was too much of an optimist. Eponine, though, always told the truth about these kinds of things, even when it stung. 

The writing box was on the table. Grantaire opened it, got out the paper, set up the inkwell. Then he hesitated. Eponine raised her eyebrows.

Eponine would see his hands sooner or later anyway. May as well be sooner. With a sigh, Grantaire tugged his gloves off with his teeth.

The smile on Eponine’s face disappeared like the wax melting off the candles. In its place came a focused rage that Grantaire had only seen in Eponine once before. That was when her parents had tried to sell Azelma to a wealthy Austrian family. She had stabbed her father in the hand with a kitchen knife over that.

Eponine looked at his hands for a moment, but then met his eyes. She made no move to touch him, which he appreciated.

“He’ll pay for what he’s done to you,” she said softly.

Grantaire took up the pen. Her rage was not his. Moving on, he started to write. May as well start small.

_Hello_

Eponine breathed in and out through her nose, her lips pressed together. Finally, she softened.

“Hello,” she said, some of her ferocity evaporating. “Hello, Grantaire.”

Alright. That went well. He considered asking about Marius, but decided on something easier. Marius could wait.

_What do you know of Enjolras?_

Eponine leaned in closer to read his chicken scratch writing. Lavender mingled with the smells of dust and sweat. She had used lavender water to wash with earlier.

“Enjolras?” She repeated, a strange tone entering her voice. “Um, well. After you disappeared, some of us started asking around. Me, Courfeyrac. Marius. That’s how Enjolras found us, I think. Him and Combeferre – you’ll meet him, I’m sure – offered to help us find you. He gave us direction, something to work toward. I was skeptical at first. As much as he claims to be _of the people_ , he can be a self-righteous, self-involved, aristocratic pain in the ass.”

Grantaire smiled at that.

“But he’s alright. Even if he’s annoying, he walks the walk.”

Whatever else Eponine thought of Enjolras, she obviously respected him. Eponine’s respect was not easy to earn. She wouldn’t have worked with him for years if she didn’t trust him. Right?

_He’s been asking to spend time with me. Do you think it’s a ploy?_

Eponine laughed.

“Has he been harassing you?” She put her hand on Grantaire’s shoulder. “That man doesn’t know when to quit. And yes, it’s definitely a ploy. Enjolras will do anything to get what he wants. Right now, what he wants more than anything is for you to help the Friends.”

A complicated rush of emotions rose up in Grantaire at Eponine’s words, but the dominant emotion was relief. He felt better now that Enjolras’ actions made sense. His overtures were disconcerting.

“That doesn’t mean it’s only a ploy,” Eponine continued. “Enjolras doesn’t waste his time on people he doesn’t like. I don’t know. Maybe he likes being able to talk at someone who won’t interrupt. That’s his heart’s desire, I’m sure.”

She kissed Grantaire on the cheek. “It’s getting late. We can talk more tomorrow.”

With one last squeeze of Grantaire’s shoulder, Eponine backed toward the door. Grantaire waved at her. He had missed her. He really had.

“Goodnight, Grantaire,” Eponine said, her hand on the doorframe. “I’ll come see you first thing in the morning. I promise.” Just before she closed the door, she gave him one last sly smile. “And you should hang out with Enjolras. What’s the harm?”


End file.
